


Above & Below

by murron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <i>Caged Heat</i> Dean, Sam and Cas climb into Hell to get Sam’s soul. While they pass from one infernal circle to the next, Dean struggles with his mistrust of soulless Sam and the shadow of his own past in the Pit. In addition, there’s the matter of Cas who’s come to mean more to Dean than he wants to admit. Fighting against Hell spawn and fallen angels, passing through burned cities and salt deserts, Dean believes in the success of their mission until their luck runs out and Hell threatens to swallow Cas whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **a/n** : Written for the deancasbigbang challenge 2011. AU after 6.10
> 
>  **Beta by** : auburnnothenna, eretria and smilla02 @ livejournal  
>  **Art by** : salty_catfish @ livejournal
> 
>  **Acknowledgements** : Sincere thanks go out to my wonderful betas: Auburn, for her brilliant advice and generous loan of Richard Burton. Smilla, for her translations and smart suggestions. Eretria, for her support, her keen eye and safekeeping of my sanity. Huge thanks also to salty_catfish for a set of illustrations that takes my breath away.
> 
>  **Sources for quotations at the end of the text**

  
  
art by [salty catfish](http://local-colour.livejournal.com/3406.html)   


  


  
**0  
Topside**

 _  
nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita  
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura  
ché la diritta via era smarrita  
_

 _midway in the journey of our life  
i came to myself in a dark wood  
for the straight way was lost_  
—Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto I

_____________________________________________________

Back when Dean went hunting with his father, John had introduced him to a number of hide-outs. He hadn’t told Dean about the Roadhouse for his own reasons, but he’d shown him other places, sanctuaries where a hunter could lay low.

One of these safe-houses stood in South Carolina, a few miles outside of Camden. It was an old homestead, hidden at the back of a driveway that passed through a tunnel of live-oaks and Spanish moss. At the back of the house, a porch overlooked a meadow grown wild with rushes and reeds.

Coming up to the house, visitors noticed the place was in good shape for an abandoned home. A closer inspection revealed warding symbols etched into the window-frames and devils’ traps on the underside of the floorboards. Rosemary and frankincense grew around the porch, keeping evil spirits at a ten mile distance.

The house rules were simple. If you used any supplies from the pantry, you replaced them. You brought your own sleeping bag for the beds and if you stayed for more than a night, you took care of any damage time and weather had done to the house, fixed holes in the roof, aired out the rooms, that kind of thing.

On the second morning of his stay, Dean had replaced a broken window panel with a square of plywood. Five hours later he sat on the porch at the back of the house and watched the sky go from pale pink to a bruised purple.

Coming here, he’d left Sam working a case in Red Hill. They hadn’t parted on good terms, Dean yelling that this might be their one chance to get Sam’s soul back and Sam should get his ass in gear. Sam had shouted he’d rather swallow a bucket full of nails. So that was that.

Dean clenched his hands and tried not to remember the way Sam had turned his back on him, leaving him to walk out the door alone. He’d come out here because it was the only quiet place he could think of and he needed the silence. He needed to be alone because if one more person told him it was foolish to go after Sam’s soul, he’d explode.

He was watching a crow wheeling over the meadow when he heard the sound of wings behind him. Startled, Dean turned to find Cas standing on the deck with a stack of books in his arms.

Dean got to his feet, his heart beating faster in spite of him. “That’s them?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cas said, and spread the books on the table.

Dean came closer to inspect the tattered volumes. They didn’t look as old as he’d expected, they more reminded him of modern day Moleskins. They were bound in soft back leather and frayed ribbons dangled out from the pages. One of the books looked swollen and stained like someone had dropped it in a puddle.

Dante’s diaries. The only surviving copies.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his chin. These books might be his first streak of good luck in a dog’s age but he’d be damned if he said that out lout.

“So,” Dean said. “Vatican City?”

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “Your source was correct. They have quite the extensive library.”

Dean smiled. “An angel breaking into the papal palace,” he said. “Wish I’d been there.”

Cas smiled back and Dean swore he saw the hint of a smirk there. Dean reached out, his fingertips touching the book closest to him.

The first time Dean heard about the diaries, he’d still been in Cicero and up to his ears in books on escapes from perdition, travels to hell and roads into the abyss. Following up on a recommendation by one of John’s old contacts, Dean had looked into a society called _Viaggiatori dei Mondi_ , folk who supposedly knew how to walk into hell without dying first. From what Dean gathered, the society used Dante’s diaries as instruction manuals, taking trips to the Pit like others would climb Mt. Everest.

Back then Dean’s research had hit a dead-end. Going from the few sources he’d scared up, the _Viaggiatori_ had disappeared in the nineteenth century and the diaries had sunk into obscurity alongside them. Elsie, the hunter who’d set Dean on the _Viaggiatoris_ ’ trail in the first place, had promised to keep digging but as time had passed Dean had turned his attention to more promising rumors.

When Elsie had called ten days ago, saying one of her overseas contacts had forwarded a clue on the books’ location, Dean had all but forgotten about the diaries. Elsie’s timing had been either very good because she’d got in touch two weeks after the Winchesters’ plan to pressgang Crowley into returning Sam’s soul had gone up in flames, or it had been very bad because by the time Elsie offered a plan B, Sam didn’t want to go after his soul anymore.

After Cas had killed Crowley, things between Dean and Sam had gone south in a landslide. Filled up with the notion that whatever they dragged out of the Cage could only harm him, Sam refused to even talk about his soul. Dean had argued his throat raw until Sam suggested he go his own way if he couldn’t live with Sam-as-was. Invited Dean to throw a punch but be prepared for the comeback.

Dean had done neither but he’d smashed his whiskey bottle against the wall as soon as Sam had gone out to get a beer. He’d taken a deep breath, quenched the urge to kick Sam’s backpack and prayed for Cas.

To Dean’s surprise, Cas had heard of the _Viaggiatori_ but, like the other angels, had assumed them to be no more than human myth. Intrigued by Elsie’s lead, Cas had promised to look into the matter as soon as possible. He must’ve cleared his schedule real fast because a couple of days later, Cas had popped in to let Dean know he was on his way to Rome. Dean had filled Sam in on the news, Sam had yelled at him for planning shit behind his back and Dean had driven up to Camden on his own. In the meantime, Cas had pulled a Hudson Hawk and liberated the Dante diaries from Benedict XVI’s hallowed archives.

Dean sat down, opened one of the books and skimmed the first page. The elegant handwriting was easy to decipher but the text seemed to be written in at least three languages, none of them English.

“Shit,” Dean muttered although what did he expect? The annotated Penguin edition?

“Let me see,” Cas demanded and sat down on the second chair. When Dean passed on the book, Cas flipped through the first few pages and raised his brows. “Interesting.”

“You think this will work?”

“I can’t tell yet. Although this incantation looks familiar.” He looked up from the page and caught Dean’s gaze. “If it works,” he said, “are you still intent on going?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to bring the books if I wasn’t,” Dean replied and opened another diary.

“What about Sam?” Cas asked.

Dean didn’t answer at first, eyes caught on the middle pages of the notebook. He couldn’t read the words but he could make out the sketches, small pictures of doorways and chains. Hands clenching around the book, Dean felt his stomach turn. Carefully, he closed the diary and looked at Cas instead.

“I called him,” Dean said. “Told him you’d bring the books. I don’t know if he’ll show.”

Cas didn’t respond, didn’t mention what Dean feared might be all too possible: That Sam would dig his heels in and not join him. Instead, Cas reached for another book and started to look through it.

“What about you?” Dean asked. “Don’t they need you upstairs?”

“I have a little time.”

Saying this, Cas didn’t meet Dean’s eyes and Dean knew Cas played down the truth if he didn’t outright lie.

“Cas…” Dean began and trailed off, not quite knowing what he wanted to say here. He needed Cas’ help but hadn’t he asked enough favors of him? Dean opened his mouth to tell Cas he didn’t have to stay but Cas was faster.

“Do you have any of these little sticky notes?” Cas asked, leafing through the diary and earmarking a page.

“Sure,” Dean said and stood to fetch some post-its and textmarkers from his bag, thinking he’d better grab a couple of beers along the way.

: : :

In his dream, Dean ran down a corridor, trying to catch up with Sam. His breath sounded harsh in his ears and the smell of scorched wallpaper hung thick in the air. Sam called to him and it sounded like he waited just around the corner but Dean never saw him, never caught a glimpse.

The smell of coal and fire intensified and Dean’s chest clenched with fear, his heart thumping hard inside his ribcage. He knew he’d be too late; he should’ve run faster, he should’ve known sooner.

Sam called his name and Dean started awake, head jerking up from the table.

The moon sat high over the meadow, a dented coin that silvered the reedstalks. Dean listened to the wind going through the grass and for a minute it seemed like he could still hear Sam, his cries almost drowned by the rushing of the reeds. Dean’s guts twisted into a knot, the urge to respond to Sam’s call so strong Dean almost opened his mouth to answer.

“Dean?” Cas asked, breaking through Dean’s daze. Dean shuddered, listened for Sam but this time heard only the wind in the rushes. Dragging a hand over his face, Dean sat up fully and turned his back to the swaying meadow. “I’m okay.”

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep but at some point he’d just switched off, he’d been that tired. Swallowing hard, Dean hauled his attention back to the research on the table.

The night was warm so they’d stayed out on the back-porch, lighting a Coleman lantern when the sun set. It had to be past midnight and the table was strewn with crumpled notes, open diaries and half-eaten sandwiches.

Cas had a sheet of paper in front of him, the once-blank page covered with his translations. “You had a nightmare,” he stated and put down his pen. “About Sam?”

Dean shook his head, not to say no but because he didn’t want to answer. Cas already knew Dean had the same dreams, with variations, since Stull. Night after night Dean closed his eyes and fell into empty houses, dark tunnels and sewers, always running after Sam but never catching up to him.

The nightmares had stopped for a while after Sam ‘returned’ only to resume full force when they found out Sam’s soul remained stuck in the Cage. Sam’s soul, which Dean always pictured in the shape of his kid brother, all six feet and four inches of him strapped to the cage bars and Lucifer doing god knows what to him.

First-hand experience had taught Dean that the soul could bleed in Hell, that it suffered pain and fear and the long loss of hope. He didn’t need Death’s sermons to understand that the soul was far more than an appendix; it was a manifestation of a human self, a person without a body. More vulnerable, even, because the soul couldn’t fall back on such physical relief as blacking out or falling asleep.

One time, when Dean couldn’t keep his mouth shut anymore, he’d talked to Cas about his nightmares. Asked if maybe they were true dreams, the missing part of Sam reaching out to him like the angels once did. Passing messages when Dean slept. Cas had told him neither humans nor their souls could communicate in that way.

It didn’t change Dean’s conviction that somewhere in the Pit, Sam was yelling for help and no-one answered. Dean knew exactly how that felt.

“Dean?” Cas pressed.

“Yeah,” Dean admitted. He pulled one of the diaries closer and hoped Cas would drop the topic. Cas didn’t take the hint, though, and stared until Dean cracked. Dean met Cas’ gaze, turned away with a grunt and pushed the diary away from him.

“I let him down,” Dean murmured and his stupid voice caught on the words. “He’s been locked in that goddamn cage for ages and this last year? I didn’t even look for him Cas.”

For months he’d been riding around with an empty shell posing as his brother and he hadn’t had a clue. Warranted or not, the guilt weighed heavy on Dean. He kept thinking that he didn’t question the manner of Sam’s escape hard enough. Most of all he couldn’t get over his failure to realize that the part that made Sam _Sam_ had been left behind.

“You didn’t know,” Cas reasoned and Dean let out a frustrated huff of air.

“Yeah apparently you can fill books with the things I don’t know,” Dean said and opened another diary. “You getting anywhere?”

“Maybe,” Cas answered, ever honest.

Dean chuckled low in his throat. “‘Maybe’ is good.”

More than good, he thought. After two years of screwing the pooch in his search for a door to hell, ‘maybe’ was _progress_.

Dean turned a few pages, rechecked a column of symbols which he had a good hunch might be coordinates. He couldn’t get his head into the game though, the letters blurring before his eyes. The wind curled under the roof of the porch, rustled through the books and made the pages whisper. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean caught a piece of paper before it slipped to the floor.

Across the table, Cas applied an orange post-it to a diary page. He had taken off his coat and suit-jacket and seemed oblivious to the pen-ink staining his thumb. The amount of dedication Cas brought to the research amazed Dean a little, not because he thought Cas wouldn’t help but because it had been a while since anyone put aside their doubts to simply back Dean up.

Even if they were valid doubts.

“Do you still think Sam’s soul will be damaged past saving?” Dean asked and shoved the lose piece of paper under one of the stones they used as paperweights. Moths beat their wings against the Coleman lantern, the sound of their flapping little bodies and the hissing gas raised goosebumps on Dean’s skin.

Cas hesitated, smoothed his thumb over the tack-note. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Sam’s a lot stronger than I, than everyone, gave him credit for. He might be able to handle the longterm effects.”

 _Might_ , Dean thought and leaned on his elbow, rubbed his fingers over the nape of his neck.

“I talked to a healer in Dalanzadgad,” Cas said softly. “He gave me an idea how I might help Sam.”

“You mean—” Dean began but Cas shook his head.

“I won’t be able to fix him,” he said. “But I can try to put a few wards in with Sam’s soul. Nothing permanent but they should calm the worst of the pain and make the healing process easier.”

“What, like a soul anesthetic?”

“Yes, actually.”

“That’s something.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose before he reached for the thermos flask and poured himself another coffee. “That healer,” he said and tilted the flask in Cas’ direction. “Did he have any ideas about Adam too?”

“No,” Cas replied. He held up his mug and Dean topped him off. Cas didn’t need to drink but apparently he enjoyed a cup of joe. “If we can get Adam separated from Michael,” Cas mused, “I can try to bolster up his soul the same way as Sam’s but—”

“Kind of tricky to exorcise an archangel, huh?” Dean asked and leaned back in his chair.

Cas mouth twitched. “Very.”

“You know,” Dean said, “if I didn’t know better I’d say we’re facing impossible odds.”

Coffee halfway to his mouth, Cas looked up and raised a brow. “That’s sarcasm,” he ventured and Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“‘Maybe’,” Dean quipped and stretched until the vertebrae popped in his back. “Come on,” he prompted. “Tell me something good. Tell me how you’re kicking Raphael’s ass in Heaven.”

Pulling a surprisingly sour face, Cas picked up his pen and skimmed his translation. “If you want to hear a success story I should not talk about my campaign.”

“You’re a ball of sunshine, you know that?” Dean retorted and Cas twitched a corner of his mouth again, licking his thumb to turn a page in the diary.

Tie askew, gaze switching between two books and his own notes, Cas added line after line of translation. Dean closed one hand around his mug and the other around a notepad, but his gaze slipped back to Cas, going over the ruffled mess of his hair and the small line between Cas’s brows. Cas, who had a fulltime job fighting a war against his brother and still pulled an all-nighter to help Dean out.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, knowing he’d never be able to explain how much it meant that Cas stood by his side again.

Cas gave a distracted huff, his attention bent on the chunk of Greek Dante in front of him. Dean swallowed a mouthful of coffee and followed suit, closed his ears to the wind and went back to the research.

: : :

On the third day after Cas had brought the books, Dean took a break to clean himself up. He filled the bathtub on the second floor and slipped in, using a bar of soap to scrub off sweat and book dust. The bathroom’s water heater didn’t work but Dean didn’t mind. The summer heat lingered in the old house and getting soaked in a cold tub didn’t feel half bad.

Dean lay back with his arms on the rims of the tub and listened to the dripping of the tap when Cas spoke up behind him.

“Dean, I...”

Cas broke off and Dean turned to find Cas standing in the doorway with a diary in his hand. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights with his eyes fixed on Dean’s shoulders or somewhere thereabouts.

“This is not a good time,” Cas began and Dean shrugged.

“Good as any,” he said. “Did you find something?” He should feel awkward being naked but in truth he didn’t give a damn. He had nothing Cas hadn’t seen before and besides, Cas had witnessed him in far more embarrassing conditions: battered, bleeding, with IV lines trailing from his arms, a feeding tube stuck down his throat and who knew how Dean had looked when Cas had plucked him off the rack. As for starting conversations in inconvenient places— he’d long-since given up teaching Cas the importance of personal space.

“I can come back later,” Cas insisted with a prudence that didn’t seem like him at all.

Dean frowned. “Cas, we’ve been busting our asses for three days straight. If you found something, I want to know.”

Cas hesitated, nodded. “All right.” He came in, sat down on a chair at the head of the bathtub and opened the diary. Water sloshing around him, Dean turned over and looked at the page Cas was holding up for him.

“Remember this?” Cas asked.

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “That’s the weird Greek poem about onions.”

“About herbs,” Cas agreed. “I thought it was decoration, one of the literary passages in Alighieri’s notes.”

Dean scanned the page and Cas’ translations in the margins. Discarding the poem had made sense. The diaries were a wild mix of travelogue, speculation, bible quotes and snippets of poetry. Not to mention the text teemed with typos and switched between Italian, Latin, Greek, Arabic and Hebrew. Dean would take his Dad’s clear-cut notes over Dante’s schemozzle anytime.

“I take it you changed your mind?” Dean asked.

“It’s not a poem, it’s a code,” Cas said. “All the herbs and minerals mentioned here are ingredients of an ancient location spell. I didn’t make the connection at first because--”

“--because of the bad rhymes?” Dean cut in and Cas smiled.

“Yes.” He pulled a piece of paper from between the pages and showed Dean a list he’d drawn up. “I isolated all the items we need. The last stanza is the incantation but it’s different from the spells I’m familiar with. It doesn’t pinpoint a person, but a threshold, a gate.”

“A hellgate? What, like the one in Wyoming?”

Cas shook his head. “No, these are different I think. For one, they’re manmade and not known to demons or angels.”

Dean whistled and leaned over the rim of the bathtub to get a closer look at Cas’ notes. “Who can build doors to Hell?”

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted. “It’s very puzzling. But look.” Cas turned over his grocery list and read out another translation. “This is from a different diary: _They built them in the north and south, in east and west, on living veins between high mountain and deep sea and as the doors opened, they allowed them to pass above and below_.”

“Above _and_ below?” Dean repeated. “So there are doors to Heaven too?”

Cas shrugged, frowned. “If you’d asked me yesterday I would’ve said there’s no such thing.”

“And those gates,” Dean continued, “you think I could pass through them without, you know, dying?”

“These books indicate so, yes.”

Dean licked his lips, staring at Cas’ notes but not seeing them at all. After months of dead-ends, could this be the breakthrough? It felt too good to be true.

“It’s a chance,” Cas said and hope flared so sharply in Dean’s chest, he grabbed Cas’ arm with a wet hand.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

He felt the grin widen on his face and saw the corner of Cas’ mouth twitch too. Cas’ eyes flicked to Dean’s head and Dean smoothed back his hair instinctively. “How fast can we try this?” Dean asked.

“Some of the items we need I found in the pantry,” Cas said, neatly folding his translation and tucking it back into the diary. “We can try out the spell as soon as I collect the rest.”

“Do I have time to finish here first?” Dean teased, although he wouldn’t mind jumping out of the tub and setting up the spell right away. Cas flinched as if he just remembered where they were and what Dean had been doing.

“Of course,” he said and Dean turned around again to scoop up a palmful of water. He ran his hands over his face and back through his hair before he picked up the soap.

“Should I leave?” Cas asked.

“Unless you want to shampoo my hair,” Dean joked. He held up the soap but Cas only rolled his eyes and left the room.

: : :

Dean rinsed his hair, scrubbed his fingers over his scalp and dug his fingertips into the tense muscles at the back of his neck. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. The washcloth he’d used hung on the rim of the tub and he picked it up, swiped it over his nape before he reached down between his legs. Closing the cloth around his dick, Dean let his eyes slip shut. For the last couple of weeks he’d been running on full steam so he’d take what relief he could get.

The terry made for good friction, wet fabric sliding and catching on his skin. Dean slid deeper into the bath, planted his feet against the bottom of the tub. The water rocked lazily against his shoulders and Dean opened his eyes a little, watched the sun on the dirty window. He worked his fist slowly up and down, squeezed, ran his thumb over the tip of his cock. His chest pulled tight and his breathing hitched, a sign it was about to get good.

 _This is a bad time._

Cas’ voice seemed to echo through the empty room and Dean let his head drop back against the tub. He raked his free hand through his hair, imagined it was Cas doing this, smoothing his palm over the back of his head. Walls coming down in a rush, Dean replayed the flash of Cas’ eyes to his naked shoulder. His dick jerked in his fist and Dean hissed out a breath, Cas’ name on the tip of his tongue. Damn, he wanted to grab Cas’ arm again, feel the hard muscle and warm skin under Cas’ shirt. He remembered his wet hand soaking through Cas’ sleeve and the small smile on Cas’ face, the quirk of his mouth.

Dean licked his lips, his hand speeding up and his back arching into the touch. The rhythmic splash of the water seemed way too loud now; if anyone passed by in the hall, the noise alone would give him away. Dean felt his face warm up and the muscles in his stomach clutch, hips straining up into the rough tug of his hand. He made a small sound, a choked-off gasp and the idea that Cas might hear him was enough to finish him off.

After, Dean let fresh water run into the tub and lay back. As the water rose slowly around him, he brushed his fingertips over the scar on his shoulder before he propped both arms on the rim of the tub and carefully blanked out his mind.

  
**Doorway**   


_Antonius Rusca, although he did not believe that Etna, Vesuvius, and other burning mountains, were mouths of hell, was of the opinion that there are entrances or an entrance to the shades, “a certain steep way, sorrowful and dark, though it is probable that the demons and souls can pass thither without doors or open entrance.”_   
—Thomas Wright, St. Patrick’s Purgatory or an Essay on the Legends of Purgatory, Hell and Paradise Current During the Middle Ages

_____________________________________________________

  


Between them, Dean and Cas not only located a hellgate, they also pieced together a set of instructions for the journey through the Pit. They never figured out how the doorways were made but it seemed certain the builders had carved the gates with a spell that would fall on any human that crossed the stoop, allowing them to pass into Hell as a living being.

The morning after Cas had invoked the hellgate’s coordinates, Dean stood by the Impala, stowing his duffel in the trunk. He’d parked his girl in a shed next to the safe-house, hoping he would return to pick her up. If he didn’t, Bobby would take care of her. Of course when he’d called Bobby to tell him, Bobby had promised to climb into Hell and kick his ass if Dean managed to get lost there.

Dean tucked his Dad’s diary into the duffel when he heard a car driving up to the house. Looking back over his shoulder, Dean watched a black Sebring stop outside the shed, the hood streaked with road-dust.

A fucking Chrysler. Dean shook his head and turned back to the Impala.

Listening to the Chrysler’s door open and shut, Dean sheathed Ruby’s knife. He folded the pages he’d torn out of the Dante diaries and stuffed them into his back pocket. Finally he closed the Impala’s trunk and smoothed his hand over her polished surface.

“Traveling light?” a voice behind him asked and Dean turned.

Sam stood in the open door of the shed, hands in his pockets. At first Dean only saw his brother, Sam backing up his plan like he always did. They’d butt heads and be stubborn but in the end they’d look out for each other.

That had been then.

“What made you change your mind?” Dean asked.

Sam cocked his head. “Who says I’m not here to stop you?”

Dean froze, acutely aware of the sheathed knife against his thigh. He schooled his face to a neutral mask and waited. Sam’s gaze slid down to the knife and back up. He shook his head and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“You know why,” Dean said and forced out a long, steady breath. He figured if Sam wanted to stop him, he’d be on him by now. It still felt weird to turn his back but he did, walking up to the front of the car.

“Yes, I know, and it’s stupid,” Sam snapped, anger breaking through his cool façade. “You heard Cas. That thing will be wrecked beyond recognition anyway.”

Dean ignored him, picking up an old and stained sheet he’d brought from the house. Little chance that a civilian would stumble upon this place but Dean wanted to cover up the Impala just in case. A polished car in an abandoned shed would draw too much attention. Sam watched him with narrowed eyes and restlessly flexing hands.

“So what will you do if I don’t take the soul back in?” Sam challenged, a smug tone creeping into his voice.

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I don’t care,” Dean shouted and clenched his hands into the sheet. Even through the cotton he could feel his nails bite into his palms. He turned around to see Sam flinch and the way his eyes widened only made Dean angrier. “You can leave, you can stay, you can rock the fucking casbah but I’m not leaving my brothers to rot in hell.”

He felt stupid standing there with the sheet bunched in his fists but if he moved now, he’d take another swing and he was fucking done with that. Sam stared at him and Dean couldn’t read his face at all.

“Brothers?” Sam echoed.

“Forgot about Adam, have you?” Dean retorted and Sam hesitated.

“He said yes,” Sam ventured.

“So he had it coming?” Dean snorted and shook his head. Why did he even try to explain this?

“Why do you care?” Dean demanded. “Hm? If I don’t come back it solves all your problems.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sam admitted and Dean felt the words cut. He shouldn’t be surprised anymore; this shit should just bounce off him. He only had to recall his day-as-a-vampire to understand he was dealing with an impostor, a Sam-automaton that mimicked his brother but ran on nothing but emptiness and an overblown instinct for self-preservation. The window-dressing had fooled Dean before but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t be lured in again, that he wouldn’t trust the shared memories and Sam-ish looks. It was simpler, and safer, to treat soulless Sam as a stranger.

“It’s—” Sam began and frowned, looking like he had to bite something sour. “I don’t like hunting alone,” he admitted. “Things are better with you.” He moved closer to the Impala and Dean tensed but Sam only stood on the far side of the car, resting his hands on the roof.

“Bullshit,” Dean growled. “You said it yourself, you did fine without me.”

“Maybe,” Sam said and to his surprise, Dean saw him swallow. “But maybe I don’t want to go with ‘fine’ for the rest of my life.”

Dean didn’t comment but Sam continued regardless. “It’s always the same,” he explained. “I hunt, I eat, I, well I don’t sleep but it’s all routine. I don’t get excited about stuff, I just… get angry sometimes.” He stared at the Impala’s roof like he wanted to drill holes into her and Dean wondered if he could see his reflection. Sam rubbed his thumb along the polish.

“Having you around is like, I don’t know, eating my favorite food or having sex. It’s better than fine.”

Dean gaped, his head spinning with the strangeness of Sam’s speech but then Sam’s next words cut clean through his bafflement.

“You’re like a knot in my handkerchief, you bring back all these memories,” Sam said and curled his mouth in a smile that never reached his eyes. “Like how your face looked when I pranked you. Hey, remember when I glued your hand to that bottle?” Dean didn’t answer but Sam didn’t seem to notice. “With you it’s like I don’t need a soul to remember all I am.”

“Yes, you do,” Dean said, aghast. “You do.”

Sam shrugged. “That’s what you’re telling me,” he said. “I’m not convinced. But if it’s a choice between watching Bob Ross repeats and kicking some demon ass in Hell, I think I’d rather come with you.” His smile widened like he knew he was doing Dean a favor. “Doesn’t mean I’ll swallow the damn thing when we spring it.”

Dean’s belly tightened, threatening to force up the breakfast he’d had earlier. For a moment, he considered leaving Sam right there because if he wasn’t lying with every word, he was using Sam’s face as leverage to convince Dean he could be trusted. Dean didn’t know why Sam suddenly agreed to tag along but he didn’t believe it had anything to do with Sam being bored.

Trouble was, Dean’s plan depended Sam’s collaboration. Better not to mention that now, though.

“If we do this,” Dean said, “I call the shots.”

“I know the drill.”

Dean huffed, thinking that the Sam he knew would never knuckle under that easy. He wondered if this Sam meant it or if it was another trick.

“Cas takes point and you’re going to have our backs.”

“Of course.”

Turning away from Sam’s too bright smile, Dean shook the sheet loose and swung it over the Impala.

: : :

That morning when Dean had gone to prepare the car, Cas had contacted Heaven and asked one of his allies to fetch him a set of amulets he wanted for their expedition.

“Think they’ll help us?” Dean had asked and Cas had answered with a clipped, “Yes.”

Despite Cas’ overwhelming confidence in his fellow angels, Dean didn’t count on help coming soon but apparently, he had it wrong.

When Dean and Sam left the shed, Dean saw Cas standing on the porch with a visitor, a tiny woman with spiked hair wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt. Compared to Raphael’s suit-brigade, she looked supremely left-wing.

Even from the distance, Dean could see the disapproval on her face as she talked to Cas. Beside him, Sam chuckled. “Hey, you think Cas included casual dress-codes in his campaign promise?”

Dean snorted. They walked up to the porch together and Cas nodded at Sam as if he’d expected him to join them all along.

“Sam.”

The woman scowled at them with a wrinkled nose. Sometimes Dean wondered if he smelled bad to angels, like rotten eggs or something, and Cas was the only poor schmuck who put up with the stench.

As Sam and Dean climbed the steps of the porch, Cas reached into his pocket and pulled out two amulets, crude circlets cut from a dark wood, wrapped around with red thread.

“Wear these,” Cas said as he handed them over. “They’ll hide you from hellhounds and guarding demons. For a while at least.”

“What about you?” Dean asked. Cas loosened his collar and showed them the identical amulet hanging around his neck.

“As if that will be sufficient,” the other angel cut in, her voice dripping with scorn.

“It will do,” Cas assured her. “Thank you, Jophiel.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean said and made the mistake to smile. “We’ll bring him back in one piece.”

The woman sucked in a breath and shot Cas a look that said, _These two? Really?_

“So you actually found the diaries?” Sam asked, cheerfully ignoring Jophiel’s hostility. “And they work?”

“We think so,” Cas hedged and Sam raised a brow.

“But?”

By way of an answer, Cas exchanged a look with Dean. Dean lifted his shoulder in a shrug. Might as well.

“People have tried to use the diaries as guides and none of them succeeded,” Cas explained. “If they made it into Hell, they never returned.”

“Yeah but they didn’t have an angel on their shoulder,” Dean added.

“Neither should you,” Jophiel snapped. She turned to Cas like she wanted to set his head straight. Cas headed her off with a nod and Jophiel breathed out sharply through her nose.

“I’ll be back in time,” Cas promised as she stepped down from the porch.

“You better,” Jophiel muttered and was gone.

“So, you’re coming?” Sam asked and Dean knew there was a barb hidden in that question.

“Yes,” Cas returned. “Are you?”

“What happened to ‘I'm not sure retrieving Sam’s soul is wise’?”

“I’ve been convinced it’s worth the risk.”

“So you’d walk one hundred miles into Hell,” Sam pressed, “for a soul that might not even be salvageable?”

At this, Cas’ voice softened. “I would,” he said. “If it were the soul of a friend.”

Sam clucked his tongue and smiled. “Man, I didn’t know you cared!”

Cas face pinched into his piss-off frown and Dean wondered more than ever why Sam wanted to join them. He got a hunch he’d better watch his back though. Running his thumb over the amulet, Dean waited while Sam slipped his own necklace over his head.

“We should go,” Cas said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed and put on the amulet.

: : :

Cas zapped them to a meadow surrounded by oak-trees. Standing in a patch of timothy hay, Dean found himself looking at a weatherboarded church without a bell tower. It was obvious no-one went there anymore: The grass grew high around the building and the windows had long-since been boarded shut.

“A church?” Sam asked. “The gateway to Hell is in a church?”

“Most old churches are built on mystical hotspots,” Cas said and walked up to the front entry. He tried the doorknob and when it didn’t give, pushed the door open with a resounding crack.

Dean heard the wind shake the trees at his back and for a moment it sounded like wings rustling. He pulled the folded pages out of his back-pocket and held them in his fist. He didn’t even know why. The paper alone wouldn’t protect them.

Cas walked into the church and the shadows inside swallowed him. Dean hesitated, hearing again the breeze in the oak-trees and dry wood snapping in the copse.

“Churches built on Hell’s roof,” Dean remarked, heart thumping against his ribs.

“Huh,” Sam said, looking the church up and down. “Would explain why they abandoned this one.”

“No kidding,” Dean muttered. They followed Cas inside and Dean had to blink to get his eyes used to the twilight. Pigeons fluttered in the eaves, a few errant feathers drifting down to a floor that was already covered in dust and dirt. Some of the church benches had collapsed; others had been stacked against the wall. A man-sized cross leaned against the wall but the altar had been removed.

Cas led them across the nave to the front of the church. Next to the platform where the altar must have stood they came upon a small door that barely reached to Dean’s chin. Close up, he could see a small line of symbols burnt into the top edge of the wood.

It should have been a backdoor but Dean doubted it led out into the open.

“Ha,” Sam laughed but Dean could tell his cheer was fake, strained. “After you, Alice.”

“Shut up and focus,” Dean snapped, feeling his muscles tense. He had the weird sense of approaching a drop, like the Grand Canyon opened behind that threshold and he’d step right out into thin air. A cold breeze streamed out from cracks in the wood and Dean smelled the sigils like they’d been burnt in minutes ago.

Cas murmured something and opened the door, stooping under the doorjamb. Dean shoved the pages from Dante’s diary back into his pocket and followed, bracing his hands on either side of the doorway. He heard Sam mutter ‘through the rabbit hole’, then he was through.

 ****  


  
**1  
The Meadows**   


  
_The circles of Hell gyrate, they are always different. Not one day is the ~~field~~ landscape the same as yesterday (nb: has been there at least twice?). […] When climbing the stairs into [שאול], these are the rules: Eat nothing you find in the deep, drink nothing. If you meet a lonely figure on the road, don’t speak to them._   
  
—Dante’s Diary, vol.3 p.23 (with annotations)

_____________________________________________________

Dean didn’t remember Hell as a place but he never forgot the feel of the chains. He still dreamed of the heavy iron links straining around his waist and wrists, cutting into his flesh and tearing him slowly apart. Other times he’d recall the weight of the chains in his hands as he fixed them around the cowering heaps of other souls. Hell had been the rack, a dark, confined space made up of moans and screams and the smell of burned flesh.

It was different this time around.

After they passed through the church door, Sam, Dean and Cas found themselves high on a mountain pass, harsh winds blowing grit and dust into their eyes. The sky, if sky it was, hung low and grey over a moonscape: Craggy peaks rose on either side of the path, scree covered the earth and nothing grew as far as the eye could see. White plain of snow blanketed the higher slopes and dirty drifts, piling against the boulders along the track.

The cold air bit at them and carried a mean, sulfurous smell that made Dean want to gag. He and Sam tied their handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses, which helped a little.

 _The first circle_ , Cas had said and explained how Hell was layered much like an onion. You had to climb down through eight circles to reach the center and by extension, the cage.

Dean walked in file with Cas leading the way and Sam bringing up the rear. Pausing on a bitch of a steep rise, Dean looked back to check how his maybe-brother was doing. Hair whipping around his face, Sam balanced from stone to stone. He gave Dean a thumbs-up, his face above the handkerchief smooth and unconcerned. Dean bit his lip and climbed on, gravel cascading loose under his boots.

Up ahead, Cas set a brisk pace like the wind and treacherous ground didn’t bother him. They probably didn’t. His trenchcoat flapped behind him like a sail as he headed for the horizon in a beeline.

: : :

A never-ending climb later, Cas suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” Dean asked, catching up to him. He followed Cas gaze to the mountainside and saw a square building jutting from the rock. From the distance, it looked like a castle or a keep.

“A checkpoint, I think,” Cas said.

Dean wiped at the dirt on his face and strained to make out any details. The keep was still pretty far away. The fact that Dean could even see it suggested the complex would be huge. Not a good thought.

Sam joined them, pulled down his handkerchief and stared up at the checkpoint. “That looks sinister,” he remarked.

“It should be empty,” Cas said but Dean didn’t like the way he frowned.

“Should?” he echoed.

Cas turned to them and Dean saw that the fine grit streaked his face, too. “This part of Hell is very old,” he explained. “If there are any demons left this far on the rim, they’re small fish. They have no purpose or influence. The court has moved elsewhere.”

“The court,” Sam said. “Crowley’s court?”

“Until recently.”

Now that they’d stopped, Cas seemed to remember that Sam and Dean weren’t all powered up on angel-juice. He looked them over, no doubt taking in Sam’s flushed face and Dean’s ragged breathing. Dean caught Cas’ gaze before he could suggest they take a break.

“Come on,” Dean said, voice muffled by the handkerchief. “We’re wasting twilight.”

Cas huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching. Without further comment, he started walking, with Sam and Dean falling in line behind him.

They struggled along the narrow ridge and Dean had to focus on his feet to keep from tripping over the edge. Even so, his eyes strayed back to the castle again and again.

When Cas had broken into Hell to rescue Dean’s soul, the angels had blasted through the front gates. This time around, Cas opted for stealth mode, using the margin pathways described in the diaries. With any luck, they would bypass the guarded routes and slip down into Hell’s core unnoticed.

How they would pry Sam’s soul out of Satan’s claws once they reached the cage was another question entirely.

: : :

It took them perhaps another hour until they pulled abreast with the checkpoint. Dean had watched the walls of the keep with growing unease and now that they passed into its shadow, tension twisted his stomach like a hard rope. High over their heads, the sky had begun to darken, while a pale, yellow glow spread in the west. In this twilight, the keep’s windows winked like a hundred little eyes.

Dean felt sick looking at the keep but at the same time, he didn’t dare to look away. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the fortress watched him back, radiating ill intent. With its high battlements and curling eaves, the keep reminded Dean of Eastern monasteries but there was nothing serene or beautiful about this edifice; it seemed to bulge, with the tiny windows riddling its walls like rot under a sagging roof. From this angle, the keep looked like a cancer eating its way into the mountain.

Dean wondered about the rooms inside the keep and imagined a warren of cramped cells, crumbling holes in the floor and iron lanterns dripping candle wax. Pouring hot wax over his prisoners’ faces had been one of Alastair’s lighter past-times. Dean remembered staring at the demon’s twitching shadow on the wall because one more look at Alastair’s smile would have broken him.

He’d never seen the outside of the torture chambers but they might well have been in a keep.

Dean shuddered, once more aware of the stench on the wind. Sam walked steadily behind him and for once Dean was grateful for his closeness. Focusing on the sound of Sam’s shoes scraping over loose pebbles, Dean pulled up the walls that had served him over the last years and put away his memories of Hell.

In the meantime, Cas hurried them on, striding out even faster than before.

: : :

Night came sudden and a black sky swallowed the soft twilight. Only the yellow glow in the west remained, limning the mountain peaks.

Waiting out the darkness, Sam, Dean and Cas had settled behind a group of boulders that offered shelter from the wind. Sitting in the soup-thick shadows, Dean heard the gravel skitter over the rock as the wind howled over the mountain pass. He tucked his hands into his armpits to keep warm but his clothes offered little protection against the chill.

They’d bypassed the checkpoint without incident but if Dean looked back, he could still make out the keep, a few pin-pricked lights dancing up on the castle plateau. Not deserted, then. Dean swallowed and pulled his arms tighter around his torso.

Beside him, Sam blew into his palms, then huddled his body up tighter. Dean watched him and flashed back to a winter night in the Impala somewhere out on a field. They’d turned off the heating because running the engine all night would leave them with a dry tank. Sam’s teeth had chattered so loud, Dean hadn’t caught a second’s sleep. He remembered the gasoline smell of the blankets they kept under the seats and he could still see Sam, wedged into the corner between backseat and car-door, red nose peeking out above the top of his scarf.

What self-respecting Winchester ever owned a scarf?

Dean smiled, remembering. Sam caught his gaze and pulled up his shoulders.

“Shit, it’s cold,” he rasped. “Your balls freeze off yet?”

Dean felt his mouth tug into a grin and flinched, a streak of guilt flashing through him. He’d sworn he’d keep his distance and here he was again, rubbing elbows with _I, Robot_.

“Nah, it’s cozy,” he muttered and steeled his heart, biting down on the impulse to care for the man beside him, to take comfort in his presence. This wasn’t his baby-brother. Just a changeling with Sam’s face, his stupid bangs and the same mannerisms if he chose to use them.

It was so easy to forget.

Dean hunched his shoulders and stared into the night, trying to ignore Sam shivering alongside him. With his eyes grown used to the dark, he concentrated on Cas crouching in front of them, his coat a pale smudge in the gloom.

“Dean,” Cas said. “Can I see the notes, please?”

Dean unfolded his arms and the cold seeped in under his cuffs as he fumbled for the diary pages in his pocket. Cas took them from his hands and looked through them with a quiet rustle.

“You can read in the night?” Dean asked and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Yes,” Cas answered, sounding distracted.

“Nifty.”

“Why do you even need the diaries?” Sam wanted to know, shifting closer until his shoulder brushed Dean’s. Dean inched away.

“I’ve been to Hell once, Sam,” Cas muttered.

“Yeah, but come on,” Sam pressed. “You’re an angel of the lord yadda yadda. Don’t they teach you the blueprints of the Pit?”

Cas sighed out through his nose and handed the pages back to Dean. “You know,” he said, voice clipped. “For people who insist on doing things their way, you expect me to have all the answers a lot of the time.”

Cas’ waspish tone caught Dean so much by surprise, he almost dropped the notes.

“Did you just bitchslap us?” Sam asked, incredulous.

“If you want to interpret it that way.”

Slowly, Dean pushed up into a crouch. He tried to make out Cas’ expression in the gloom.

“It’s happening, isn’t it?” he asked and Cas nodded.

“Yes.”

“Wait,” Sam cut in, alarmed. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Hell,” Cas said. “It’s sapping my ‘mojo’.”

“What? I thought you were new and improved?”

Cas shrugged. “I am, upstairs. Down here I’m out of place,” he explained. “There’s a balance to things. Angels draw strength from Heaven, Hell weakens them.”

“Weakens them,” Sam echoed. “You mean it kills you?”

“We’ll be long gone before that happens,” Cas huffed and Dean couldn’t tell if he was annoyed by the inconvenience or insulted by Sam’s assumption.

Cas crouched on his haunches with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. Watching him, Dean felt the same tightness that had curled around his spine when they’d first discussed this. He trusted Cas to know his limits but even so he’d made a vow to get Cas back up before Hell could damage him. Not that Dean had any idea how he would keep that promise should Hell decide to close around them like a fist. If they were noticed, if demons closed ranks to guard the way out of the Pit, Dean would be about as powerful as a fly in a bell jar. Cas knew it, too. Dean had tried to talk him out of coming but Cas would have none of it.

 _You need me for this_ , he’d said. Dean had been tempted to correct him. He needed Cas period.

“You knew about this?” Sam asked and Dean felt the weight of Sam’s stare on him.

“Yeah.”

“And you still took him along?” Sam whistled. “Wow. I know I lost my soul but are you sure you still have yours?”

Dean’s hand clenched around the diary pages. He made an effort to relax his grip, smooth out the notes and shove them into his jacket’s pocket.

“How’s it show?” he asked Cas, ignoring Sam’s scowl.

“Small things,” Cas admitted. “I believe I’m losing my sense of direction.”

“I don’t believe this,” Sam muttered and Dean heard the gravel crunch as he shifted. “How long until your compass gives out?”

“It’s already happening. Until the next circle, maybe.”

“And then?”

“Then, we follow you.”

In the silence that followed, Sam grew very still.

“Excuse me?” Sam said slowly and any emotion had completely drained from his voice.

“Your soul is a part of you, Sam,” Castiel explained. “It belongs to you and you with it. Now that we’re on the same side of the threshold, you’ll be drawn to it.”

In other words, they needed Sam’s body to locate Sam’s soul. Dean remembered when Cas had explained the vessel-soul affinity back in South Carolina.

 _Like paper-clips to a magnet?_

 _Yes._

Sam didn’t say anything, digesting the news perhaps until he suddenly stiffened.

“What would you’ve done if I’d stayed behind?” he asked, voice tight with suspicion.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Dean said and Sam drew in a sharp breath.

Leaving Sam behind in Red Hill had been a gamble. Dean hadn’t known if Not-Quite-Sam would follow but he’d hoped curiosity would get the better of him. If Sam had known that they needed him to be their pathfinder, he could’ve prevented the expedition simply by refusing to cooperate. Dean had kept that information from him on purpose. Now Sam realized he’d been played.

Dean braced for the fallout but to his surprise Sam just stared at him. Back in Red Hill, they’d almost come to blows over Dean going after the Dante diaries behind Sam’s back. Now he didn’t utter a peep? Yeah, no. That didn’t disturb Dean at all.

Eventually, Sam turned away to glare at the mountain pass, still without comment. Dean leaned back against the boulder, weathered out the cold that seeped off the stone and through his jacket. He had expected Sam to bail once the cat was out of the bag, or throw a fit at least. Why didn’t he?

“It will be light in a short while,” Cas said and Dean wedged his hands under his armpits once more. “Try to get some rest.”

  
**2  
The Wastelands**   


  
_Ppl that climbed into Hell: Aeneas, Orpheus, Ulysses, Gilgamesh, ~~Pwyll~~ …  
cf The Harrowing of Hell, Peter 3:19-20_   


he went and made a proclamation to the spirits in prison, who in former times did not obey, when God waited patiently in the days of Noah (paper clipping)

  
_Katabasis = the epic convention of the hero’s trip into the underworld_   


—from Dean’s Notes, Dec 23rd 2010, Cicero

_____________________________________________________

When passing down from one layer of Hell to the next, they had to cross a threshold. Cas had told Dean he’d be able to sense the seams between circles, at least up to a point. Dean had little idea how these thresholds might manifest but he’d assumed they’d be marked somehow. As it turned out, he didn’t even notice when they crossed the first one.

Night on the mountain didn’t feel as long as regular nights and with the first hint of dawn, Dean, Sam and Cas got back to walking, following the track Cas scouted out for them.

Sam hadn’t talked at all after last night’s revelation but he came along without protest. Dean mistrusted his silence but for the moment he took what he could get.

After a while, the track left the ridge and passed into a gorge, leading steadily downward. Soon the mountains dropped back behind them and the country sloped more gently on either side of the track. Thorny shrubs sprouted up between the rocks and fine sand mixed into the gravel underfoot. Before long, the country evened out and the view opened to a flat basin spreading all the way to the horizon.

Cas led them through a girdle of bramble and out onto the plain where, absurdly, they came across a set of train tracks leading off into the distance. The rails looked disused, weeds choking the ties. A rusty bumper marked the end of the line.

Glancing down the rails, Dean looked across the plain, taking in the expanse of pebbled sand and the blackbrush patches. Vast stone buttes rose in the distance, their outlines obscured by a bluish haze.

“Cas,” Dean asked, looking at the desert with a sinking heart. “How much farther to the next level?”

“We’re already on it,” Cas said and Dean raised his brows in surprise. He looked back at the mountain range which already seemed far away.

“You sure?” Sam asked, breaking his silence. “Better check that compass, buddy. Maybe your needle’s a little wonky?”

“Sam,” Cas sighed and turned to face him. “Why don’t you take the lead for a while?”

“Like hell.”

“No, now is a good time,” Cas insisted and fixed Sam with a stare. “As long as my ‘needle’ still works I can check if you pick up your soul’s location.”

“Or if I’m leading you astray,” Sam said.

“Or that,” Cas agreed, pleasantly.

Annoyance flitted across Sam’s face so fast Dean barely caught it. With his mouth thinned into a hard line, Sam turned around and started walking, not checking if they followed or not.

“I hope his soul will make him less annoying,” Cas muttered, watching as Sam stalked away along the rail tracks.

Dean remembered the various degrees of Sam’s bitch-face and smiled. “Don’t count on it.”

 

: : :

 

The farther they walked into the desert, the better Dean could see the stone formations lining the horizon. The sight reminded him of Monument Valley only these stone buttes were too weird to be natural. For one, they all looked the same, square and tall, like some giant kid had left behind his toy bricks.

Marching straight ahead, Sam didn’t turn around once and Dean let him sulk. He was still surprised that Sam did what Cas had asked. He’d decided not to poke the bear and accept Sam’s compliance as long as it lasted. The silence started to grate on him though.

“So how come you know so little about Hell’s geography?” Dean asked, wanting to hear someone talk.

“It wasn’t part of my training,” Cas said and his mouth crimped into a hard line. “I’m a soldier, remember? The only time I received intelligence about Hell was when I had to come here.”

“You mean when you came to get me,” Dean stated.

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “They explained the territory quite explicitly then. We attacked another side of the Pit, though, the populated regions. The way to the torture chambers is shorter though it’s more heavily guarded.”

Dean swallowed, fixing his eyes on the horizon again. Sense-memories welled up inside him, flashes of dark blood oozing down a wall and the sound of tearing flesh. He clamped down on the images, pulling up the walls he’d built over the last two years.

Oblivious to Dean’s discomfort, Cas continued. “I think the higher ranks have a more detailed knowledge of Hell’s roads and portents but even they have to rely on vague reports. We had a few successful spies over the millennia but usually if angels drop into Hell, they stay there.”

Dean shot him a glance. “How many fallen angels are there?”

“More than you think,” Cas evaded. “I know that one of them guards the sixth circle.”

“Great.”

For a time, they trudged on without speaking and Dean contemplated the Hell-dust on his boots. He looked ahead and saw that Sam had switched onto the rails, stepping from tie to tie. It took him a second to realize that Cas was still watching him.

“I’m surprised,” Cas blurted.

“Why’s that?”

“I thought returning to Hell would affect you more,” Cas admitted. “Most people would be scared.”

Cas sounded so serious and impressed, Dean couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing.

“What?” Cas asked, eyebrows twitching up.

“It’s just,” Dean began and shook his head. “Man, I am scared. I’m scared shitless.” He drew in a breath, once more feeling his chest constrict with the memories. He’d realized a long time ago that he would never forget his time downstairs and that had been hard enough to live with. To be here again, back inside the trap he’d struggled so hard to crawl out of… he couldn’t even begin to measure what it did to him.

“It’s like every breath I take down here pulls me back to the rack,” Dean murmured, swallowed and forced his voice to be firmer. “Like I never left, you know?”

“You did.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Dean admitted. “I get these nightmares and they’re so damn real, Cas. I close my eyes and I still think there’s someone standing close to me, waiting, you know. Watching.”

“Alastair—” Cas began but Dean cut him short.

“No.” He cleared his throat, thinking it would be better to shut up but now that he’d begun, he couldn’t stop. “It’s me, Cas,” he admitted and felt his heart sink with the truth of it. “I see me. Like I was down here. I turned into one evil, sadistic freak and the worst thing? It was still me. All of it, even—”

Dean broke off, setting his teeth as he felt the bile rise in his throat. His skin still burned with shame, remembering not the pain he endured but the pain he’d inflicted and the way it had made him feel.

Free. At the time he’d felt free.

Dean scrubbed a hand back through his hair and sighed, his breath stuttering out shakier than he would’ve liked. Cas stared at him, then turned his face back toward the rails.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”

 _You and me both_ , Dean thought. If he’d known help was coming, would he’ve held out longer? He doubted it. It took him some time to shake the guilt that loomed over him like a wave ready to crash. It felt good to have Cas with him though. Cas had always seemed so convinced that Dean was worth saving. Even after they discovered the plan behind Dean’s resurrection, Cas believed in him and thought he might do some good yet. He’d chosen Dean in the Green Room and Dean had never forgotten it.

“Why did you?” Dean wanted to know.

“What, come for you?” Cas asked and Dean shook his head.

“No, I mean, why you?” He’d wondered that on and off. The Host could have sent any angel to be their spear-tip but they had picked Cas. Cas, who took humanity’s side and rebelled against Heaven. If Uriel had plucked Dean off the rack, chances were the apocalypse would be in full swing by now.

In his more philosophical moments, Dean suspected the order that singled out Cas hadn’t come from Michael but someone higher up the foodchain and they’d known exactly what would happen.

Cas’ answer kicked all Dean’s assumptions over board, though. “Because I asked.”

Dean tripped to a halt and Cas stopped as well, frowning mildly.

“Why would you—” Dean began but before he could finish, Sam called out.

“Uhm, guys?”

Cas hurried off at once, climbed onto the rails and strode over to Sam. Dean jogged after him, shaking off the questions that raced through his head.

As they joined him, Sam jerked his head toward the sky. Dean followed his gaze and saw a black dot heading their way. A crow, maybe?

“It’s flying fast,” Cas muttered.

“And against the wind,” Sam added.

Dean drew Ruby’s knife and prepared to, what exactly? To throw? Sam pulled out a knife, too, a regular one without supernatural enhancement. Cas had convinced Dean that bringing ordinary weapons would be useless but right now Dean wished he had his gun. His hand twitched toward his absent holster.

Dean was still cursing their limited arsenal when he noticed Cas, standing with his feet planted apart and his arm raised. He extended his hand toward the approaching speck as though he wanted to grab it from the air.

The speck bumped twice and winged toward them even faster. “Cas?” Dean swallowed.

Within seconds the thing was close enough to prove it was indeed a bird, at least it had wings. It came on bullet-fast. Dean braced for the attack when Cas suddenly closed his fist and jerked it down. The bird stopped in midair and dropped, hitting the ground with a rustling thump.

Sam whistled and stepped off the tracks, walking over to the felled creature. Dean followed with Cas in tow.

Heart thumping in his chest, Dean stared at the black, feathery heap at their feet. It had the wings of a crow but the rest of its body was covered in fur. The head was bald and grey, tapering off into a big, serrated beak. It was the ugliest thing Dean had ever seen.

“What the hell?” Dean blurted.

Cas touched the critter with the tip of his shoe and frowned. “They are screeches I think.”

“ _They_?”

“They always travel in flocks.”

Dean barely had time to digest that tidbit before Sam tensed beside him.

“Oh, shit,” Sam murmured and when Dean followed his gaze, he spotted a cloud of black dots heading their way.

“Cas,” Dean gritted. “You got this covered?” The moment he turned to check, though, Cas’ strained face told him it wouldn’t be that easy. Was it ever?

“Come on, man,” Sam pressed, transfixed by the advancing flock. “Get your mojo up and running!”

“I need time,” Cas grunted and curled his fists at his sides.

Dean clenched his jaw. “You got two minutes or we’re birdseed.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Dean heard the sound of scattering scree close-by. Frowning, he scanned the ground for the source of the noise and saw a molehill grow from a patch of sand and grit.

Within seconds, the mound bulged and split, sand spilling out the cracks as something pushed from underneath. First a black wingtip showed, then a hump of furry back. Grit cascaded off a misshaped head as the screech burrowed out of the desert like an oversized grub.

Skin crawling with disgust, Dean watched as similar bumps started bulging from the ground all around them.

Did he say two minutes?

“Well, you jinxed it,” Sam shouted and backed away until he bumped into Dean’s shoulder. Dean counted six shifting, pulsing mounds and more coming.

“Cas,” he said, proud that he kept his voice from cracking.

Cas took one look at the emerging screeches, pulled his sword from his coat and tossed it to Sam. “Stall them.”

“Shit,” Sam repeated, dropped his knife and raised Cas’ sword instead.

Following old dance-steps, Dean moved to cover Sam’s back and stomped on one of the creatures as it wriggled out of the scree. The wing-bones cracked and the furry body gave under Dean’s boot. Yet even as Dean rammed his heel into the screech, another struggled free and lunged itself at Dean’s face.

Stumbling back, Dean knocked it sideways with his arm and felt the jagged beak raze across his cheek. He heard more fluttering behind his back and the swish of the angel sword. Sam cursed as more and more screeches popped out of the ground and scuttled toward them.

Something knocked into Dean’s nape, heavy as a bat. He whirled around trying to grab it and felt another screech bump into his arm.

“Damn it,” he yelled and tore the screech off his back, kicking another that flapped toward his ankle. Two more hit him in the chest, twisting claws into his jacket. He heard Sam shout his name and something that sounded like, “Watch out!”

Prying screeches off his clothes, Dean jerked up his head and saw the flock right above him, wings blotting out the sky.

As the screeches converged over his head, Dean froze and flashed forward to two dozen beaks impaling him on the spot.

“Dean!” Sam yelled and suddenly he was there, grabbing Dean around the shoulders and yanking him to the ground. Dean dropped by instinct, making himself small, and Sam wrapped around him, pulling Dean into the curve of his body. Dean had time to gasp and inhale a wave of sweat and blood and warmth, then the flock fell on them like hard rain.

Dean set his teeth against the pain and clutched at Sam’s sleeve. He felt Sam tense, heard him grunt between clenched teeth as more and more screeches plummeted onto his back.

Dean opened his mouth to tell Sam, _no, don’t_ , when a clap loud as thunder split the air and rocked the ground under their feet.

For a split-second, nothing happened, then the screeches dropped out of the sky and splashed onto the desert like rotten fruit.

Slowly, Sam unfolded his body and let go of Dean, both of them straightening up. All around them, the ground was covered in dead screeches, wings and claws sticking out at weird angles.

Dean turned his head and there was Cas, standing with his palms still pressed together. His face was so rigid it might have been made of stone but the air around him seemed to quiver ever so slightly. Thin tendrils of blue fire snaked around Cas’ hands and winked out.

Speechless, Dean got to his feet. Sam followed, wincing as he uncurled his battered back.

“So Hell drains your strength?” Dean asked.

“Some of it,” Cas answered and came over to take a look at Sam’s back.

“Remind me not to piss you off when we’re topside.”

Cas smiled and placed his hands on Sam’s shredded jacket. “If I had that little self-control you’d have been dead long ago.”

 

: : :

 

Leaving the pile of dead screeches behind, Dean, Sam and Cas continued along the railway tracks. Before long, Dean spotted a row of buildings in the distance. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, growing out of the desert like a mirage. Or molehills. Dean shuddered.

As they got closer, Dean saw the houses were part of a frontier town, something straight out of a Sergio Leone Western. The rails ran right past the settlement but there was no platform, only a one-room shack with a sign that said Sandy Skull Station.

Dean didn’t need to check to know the town was deserted. Traveling the back-roads of America he’d come upon his fare share of ghost-towns. Ironically, few of those were actually haunted. Stepping off the rails, Sam, Dean and Cas skirted round the station and came out on the main street.

Dean looked at the false house-fronts, the porches running from one building to the next and it came to him how telling it was that Hell modeled its landscape after man-made places. No place in the pits that you couldn’t already visit upstairs.

“Please tell me we’re close to another threshold?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cas said and nodded at Sam. “Good job.”

Sam shot him a black look and buried his hands in his pockets.

Cas tilted his head, unfazed. “You can’t sense your soul yet, can you?”

“I just followed the rails, dude.”

As if it didn’t matter one way or the other, Cas nodded and took the lead again. The three of them made their way down main street which was to all intents and purposes the only street in town.

Cas had healed Sam’s back but there were still tears in his jacket, marking the places the screeches had hacked through. As they walked into town, Dean kept looking at Sam’s back and remembered how Sam had folded around him, protected him.

He couldn’t make any sense of that. How did this fit with Sam’s whole ‘I don’t care about shit and you’ attitude? It gnawed at Dean but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“This way,” Cas announced and stepped onto one of the porches that lined the road. The house he’d picked looked like a public place, a saloon maybe, with actual batwing doors. Going inside, however, Dean realized his mistake.

“Dude,” he said. “Seriously?”

The place had a bar but instead of bar tables and chairs, the room was decked out with red plush couches and oriental carpets. A feather boa trailed over one of the couches like the discarded skin of a snake. More telling than that were the instruments on the bar, a horsewhip and a leather collar which Dean doubted would fit on a poodle. Two sets of whiskey tumblers waited on the dark wooden counter as if the owners had just stepped out.

“Give me a second,” Cas said and Dean raised his brows.

“To do what?”

Cas leveled a stare at him and left, disappearing behind the curtain next to the bar.

Fascinated in spite of himself, Dean trailed around the room, looking at the holes in the couches where mice had burrowed into the cushions. Were there mice in Hell?

“Man,” Sam said. “This place is weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered. They stood to look at a painting on one of the walls, showing a nude woman on a pile of sheets. Water-damage had cracked and bloated the canvas, turning the woman’s face into a splotch, green and beige and red paint running down in smears.

Dean chewed his lip and looked away, catching Sam as he peered back over his shoulder, tugging at the tears in his jacket. Dean opened his mouth, hesitated, then went ahead and asked anyway. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Sam asked and Dean had to bite back a ‘don’t be stupid’.

Easy. “Back in the desert. Why did you help me?”

Sam looked at him and for a second Dean could’ve sworn Sam didn’t know the answer. Then Sam’s face hardened and he shrugged one shoulder.

“I told you I’d have your back,” Sam said. “If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.” With that, he left Dean standing and headed for the curtain Cas had passed through earlier.

“Cas?” Sam called and Dean heard Cas answer back.

“In here.”

Sam disappeared behind the curtain but Dean lingered, digesting Sam’s answer. His first impression was that Sam had meant what he’d said but surely that couldn’t be. Maybe he’d protected Dean because he could and it served his needs at the time.

It hadn’t felt that way though. Sam covering Dean had felt like before, like Sam, the brother Dean grew up with. Sam, who’d pick up a gun and shoot a banshee between the eyes before it could lay hands on Dean.

Dean closed his eyes, struggling against his doubts. He’d been so certain that the Sam who returned from the cage was nothing but a shell, an impostor at best. But was it possible there was still a trace of the old Sam lodged in his vessel?

Fuck it, he couldn’t get sidetracked. It didn’t matter anyway. If they rescued Sam’s soul, Dean would do anything in his power to make Sam whole. If they failed, they’d be dead anyway and questions about Sam’s authenticity would be moot.

Hurrying to catch up, Dean pushed the curtain aside, getting a noseful of dust and mold. The room behind the bar was bigger than it should be and higher, too, with no windows and a grilled iron floor underfoot.

When they joined him, Cas was wrestling with the door of an ancient, wire-cage lift. Dean didn’t even ask why there’d be an elevator in a one-storey building. Instead, he looked at the pulley above the wire cab and figured this elevator only went one way.

“The threshold?” Dean asked.

Cas wrenched open the door and the hinges screeched. “Yes.”

Dean looked at the shaft opening in the floor and clucked his tongue. “Down we go.”

  



	2. 2/4

  
**3  
City of the Dead**   


  
_[Eurydice] was among the recent ghosts, and walked haltingly from her wound. The poet of Rhodope received her, and, at the same time, accepted this condition, that he must not turn his eyes behind him, until he emerged from the vale of Avernus [entrance to the underworld], or the gift would be null and void._   


  
_They took the upward path, through the still silence, steep and dark, shadowy with dense fog, drawing near to the threshold of the upper world. Afraid she was no longer there, and eager to see her, the lover turned his eyes. In an instant she dropped back, and he, unhappy man, stretching out his arms to hold her and be held, clutched at nothing but the receding air._  
—Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book X, Orpheus and Eurydice

_____________________________________________________

A green light traveled down the call buttons, pinging toward the basement. At some point, Dean noticed that the cage around them had changed: matte steel walls replaced the wire and a mirror took up the back of the cabin.

When the elevator finally touched the bottom, the elevator didn’t spew them out in a cellar but on top of a skyscraper. The elevator doors slid open, revealing an open space office and a window-front exhibiting a grey skyline. The office was abandoned like the bordello with sheaves of paper scattered all over the floor.

“Trading’s closed,” Dean cracked and Sam huffed. Cas pressed the ground floor button again and this time, the elevator took them down to street-level.

 

: : :

 

They left the skyscraper’s lobby, walking across a carpet of shards and out the shattered glass doors. Outside, empty cars choked the boulevard bumper to bumper. Dean turned left and saw a bus blocking an intersection, the rest of the cars frozen in their attempt to squeeze past.

“Which way?” Dean asked.

Cas peered down the street, walked a few steps and turned around. “Down there I think.”

“You think?”

“It’s getting harder to pick up the threshold’s location,” Cas said and turned for Sam.

“Don’t look at me,” Sam grumbled. Dean stepped out from under the skyscraper’s canopy and looked up. Grey clouds pulled across the sky, their reflections skimming along the skyscrapers’ windows. The air smelled cleaner than it had in the elevator but it was also colder.

“How long until Sam picks up on soul radio?” Dean asked and pulled his jacket closed.

“I don’t know,” Cas admitted and buttoned up his coat. “I was hoping he would sense it by now.”

“And you’re sure the threshold’s that way?”

Cas didn’t answer and Dean didn’t like that at all. They started walking all the same, heading down the boulevard in the same direction as the clouds overhead.

 

: : :

 

At some point, Cas stepped off the sidewalk and into the street, pushing his way through close standing cars. The three of them were weaving around taxis and Mercedes limousines when it started to rain.

What started out as a few splotches soon segued into a downpour: rain pelted off the car-tops and the buildings that lined the road blurred in a haze. Dean flipped up his collar but the water still trickled into his shirt. And was it his imagination or did the raindrops sting? It figured that the rain in the Pit would be acidic.

Returning to the sidewalk, they passed a fast-food joint with the windows advertising XXL burgers with extra bacon. The posters showed a blond model-type girl, her face blown up to giant size. She held up a burger and winked, opening her mouth wide. Maybe the image aimed to entice but the burger dripped too much grease even for Dean’s taste and the girl’s gaping mouth reminded him of an anaconda unhinging its jaw.

They reached a large square when Cas stopped, one hand on the hood of a SUV. He lifted his chin and seemed to listen for something. Dean had a sinking feeling that whatever Cas hoped to hear, his antenna was no longer receiving.

“Game over?” he asked. Cas tilted his head and Dean felt a glimmer of hope until Cas’ shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

“I’m afraid so,” Cas said. The hems of his trenchcoat were soaking wet and dripping and Dean wondered if Cas felt the rain’s bite as much as he did. He reached over, squeezed Cas’ shoulder and felt him wince.

“Bummer,” Sam muttered and Cas used his interruption to focus on him.

“You have to take over.”

“Screw you, I’m not a divining rod,” Sam spat. “I told you I don’t sense anything.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, obviously pissed, and Dean stiffened. “What’s it even supposed to feel like?” Dean asked, hoping to distract Cas before he clapped his hands in Sam’s face.

Amid the dishwater-rain and the grey concrete all around, Cas’ eyes looked extremely blue. “Some experience it as a pull or as a sense of going the right way,” he explained, the anger slowly dimming from his gaze. “You will feel it—” he began and Sam snorted.

“Sorry, man, the needle’s on empty for feelings these day—”

“You will feel it,” Cas repeated, “because the closer we get to your soul, the more it will influence you.”

Stiffening, Sam drew his mouth tight and Dean could see a muscle jump in his jaw.

“I told you before,” Cas continued. “You and your soul are two halves of a whole. There’s a link between you and before long your soul’s sensations will echo through you.” Cas stretched out his arm and tapped two fingertips against Sam’s sternum. Sam twitched back, startled.

“What it feels, you’ll feel,” Cas said and again his eyes seemed too bright, too blue.

Dean understood the implications and saw how it hit Sam, too. Whatever Michael and Lucifer were doing to Sam’s soul, there would come a point when Sam would share the pain by proxy.

Sam squared his shoulders and Dean braced for the explosion. If Sam was already convinced merging with his soul would fuck him up, what did he think of the news that he’d get a share of the soul-pain long before he even touched it?

“I’m not doing this shit,” Sam repeated and Dean thought he heard something in his voice then, some tiny quaver under the attitude.

“What would you do, then?” Cas demanded. “Stay here? Turn back?”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t encourage him,” Dean muttered and Sam shot him a nasty look. He spun around, stomped off a few steps and stopped. Tilting up his head, Sam took a deep breath, his shoulders lifting and sinking. Dean was about to reason with him when Cas touched his arm.

“Wait.”

Grudgingly, Dean bit his tongue.

The rain cascaded down in a rush; water bubbled up from the gullies and spread in puddles on the street. As Sam presumably got in touch with his soul radar, Dean had a hard time not shuffling his feet. He wished they could wait under a roof at least. He scratched the back of his neck where the rain itched on his exposed skin.

Dean had just lowered his hand when he heard a curious flapping sound, like a sail unfolding and suddenly the rain stopped. No, strike that. Everywhere around Dean, the flood hammered down but none of the water touched Dean. Five inches above his head, the rain rolled off the air like water off an invisible tarp.

Surprised, Dean shot a look at Cas but Cas didn’t meet his eyes.

They stood for quite some time, Dean feeling a little awkward and a lot weird. Then Sam started walking without warning and Cas fell in line, taking his wings and his protection with him.

 

: : :

 

Sam led them downtown through a park with a muddy lawn. Two blocks farther east they reached a hospital, a squat complex hunkering behind a box hedge. The ambulance in the driveway stood with its backdoors opened and a gurney waited on the ramp. Dean couldn’t shake the suspicion that something had swooped down on this city and sucked every soul out of existence. Considering the locale, the idea didn’t even seem far-fetched.

For the last half hour, they hadn’t talked. The rain didn’t let up and it chipped away at all of them, weighing down their clothes and chilling them to the bone. Shoulders set in a rigid line, Cas pushed back the wet hair that clung to his forehead. Sam’s face looked like the storm clouds above, closed-off and sullen. They were all tired.

They entered the hospital through the front, wedging open the slide-doors and passing through the lobby. Dean circled around a row of orange plastic chairs, socks squelching inside his boots. His scalp prickled and he tasted the sour, metallic residue of the rain on his lips.

“The threshold’s in here somewhere,” Sam announced in a tone that said, ‘There. Happy now?’

“That’s all you got?” Dean asked. “‘In here somewhere’?”

Sam took a breath and turned his back on him. “Bite me.”

“Come on, Sam, first floor, second?”

“I fucking don’t know,” Sam bit out the words before he shot Dean a cold look. “I guess we better split up.”

Watching him, every fiber of Dean’s body prickled with distrust. Once again he got the sense that Sam’s bitching was fake, some loud performance pasted over his real agenda. Dean raked his brain, going over everything Sam had done so far. If Sam wanted to screw them over, how would he do it? Would he know more about Hell than he was letting on? Or would he separate Dean and Cas, waiting to get them alone?

Out loud Dean said, “No way. We’re sticking together.” He peeled off his soaked jacket and dropped it on one of the orange chairs. Shit, he’d give anything to have dry clothes.

“You mean you want to watch me,” Sam clarified and combed a hand back through his hair. Water trickled down his temple but Sam’s face stayed neutral and it drove Dean up the wall. He just couldn’t get a read on the guy.

“If the shoe fits,” Dean said and looked over at Cas for confirmation. For once though, Cas didn’t have his back.

“Sam is right,” Cas said, his eyes already scanning the shady corridors that branched off the lobby.

“What?” Dean blurted. “No!”

“If none of us senses the threshold,” Cas argued, “we have to search the building. We’ll move faster if we each take a floor.”

“Fuck fast,” Dean growled and sat down in one of the chairs. Even the idea of letting Sam out of his sight cranked his anxiety levels into red alert.

“Dean,” Cas tried and the patience in his voice struck a wrong chord with Dean.

“What?” he snapped “You’ve got to be somewhere?”

Cas glared at him and Dean instantly felt bad. The foot-in-mouth approach fit his M.O., but Cas didn’t deserve his attitude. If it had been just the two of them, Dean would apologize and convince Cas it would be safer if they continued watching each others’ backs. Sam’s presence froze his tongue though.

“Are you finished?” Cas asked, his tone icy, and Dean clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold Cas’ gaze.

“So?” Sam asked.

“We split up,” Cas answered and Sam shrugged.

“I’ll take the first floor,” he said and walked to the stairs, the soles of his boots squeaking on the hospital floor.

“Be careful,” Cas advised him. “If you find the threshold, don’t cross it. I don’t know if you’d be able to come back and find us.”

Sam looked back over his shoulder. “So it’s easier going down than up, huh?”

Cas nodded. “That is my concern.”

“Shocker there,” Sam snorted and left.

Dean listened to his fading footsteps with a knot his stomach. “This is a mistake.”

“The decision’s been made.” Cas tipped his head into his I’m-listening-to-the-universe-tilt and pointedly avoided Dean’s gaze. “And I’d prefer if we get to it quickly.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue his point but the way Cas unbuttoned his coat with his face set in stiff lines stopped him short. It wasn’t like Cas to take Dean’s lip that personal unless—

Unless, Dean realized with a sinking heart, Hell’s influence chafed hard at Cas. And hadn’t Dean promised to get Cas to safety before that happened?

 _Fuck fast_. Dean heard the echo of his own words and winced.

“I’ll search the ground floor,” Cas said.

“Cas.”

“We’ll meet back here,” Cas finished and walked away down the nearest corridor.

Dean closed his eyes and slumped down in his chair. Hell’s rain had soaked him like a piece of rice-paper, he’d lost sight of his Replicant brother and now he’d managed to piss off Cas.

Good thing he had everything under control.

 

: : :

 

Resisting the urge to go find Sam, Dean climbed up to the second floor and searched the labyrinthine corridors. If he didn’t think too much about it, he could almost believe the hospital was a stage set. That way the empty hospital beds with their trailing IVs and rumpled sheets lost some of their ominous vibe.

Dean made his way down the geriatrics ward, trying to catch any unusual vibes in the air. He tried every door, hoping one of them would open to a vista of the next circle. More desert maybe. Or perhaps a fair because hell had to stash the clowns somewhere.

Dean wondered if Cas or Sam were any luckier in their search. He kept listening, hoping one of them would call down the hall and tell him they’d struck gold. He tried not to imagine coming back to the reception desk on his own and waiting in vain for the other two to return.

He’d almost reached the end of the corridor when a rash of goosebumps trickled up his arm. Dean stopped in front of a door marked ‘janitor’. When he pressed his hand against the door, he felt a tingling in his palm.

“My soaked sock says you’re it,” Dean muttered. Carefully, he pushed open the door, expecting a view of a nightmarish moonscape. Instead, he saw a shoebox-sized room cramped with shelves and plastic-wrapped toilet paper. Frowning, Dean stepped closer. He’d been so certain and the room still felt weird but even as Dean set his foot over the threshold, nothing changed.

Wondering if there was another exit hidden behind the shelves, Dean moved into the closet and the door clicked shut behind him.

  
**4  
Shadows Below**   


  
_Hell is empty, and all the devils are here_   
—William Shakespeare, The Tempest   


_____________________________________________________

Dean spun around the second the dark swallowed him. He made a grab for the doorknob but the handle had disappeared. So had the door. Cursing, Dean ran his hands over the wall but felt only the raised pattern of a wallpaper.

“No,” Dean muttered. “Dammit, no.” He raked both hands back through his hair and clutched the nape of his neck. It took him a second to realize that his hair was no longer wet. Dean padded his sleeve and realized that his jacket had been quick-dried too. So had the rest of his clothes.

Crossing over into a deeper level of Hell had affected neither Dean nor his clothes before, but hey, maybe this threshold was _special_.

Heart sinking, Dean flattened his palms against the wall and breathed out. He thought of Cas warning them not to pass into the next circle alone. Way to jinx it.

What now, then? Should he wait for Sam and Cas to catch up? Should he yell? Chalk a fucking hole on the wall? Dean dug his fingers into the wallpaper. He was still debating his next step when he heard something shuffle in the dark.]

The second he heard the sound, Dean wanted to turn but he kept his body still instead, all his senses honing in on the soft rustle of, what, clothes? Wings?

Quietly, Dean put his hand on the hilt of his knife. He listened, hoping that whatever was in here with him would betray its position with another noise. It didn’t, but something brushed by so close Dean felt the air shift on his neck.

Dean pulled out the demon-knife and got ready.

The other tried to be quiet but couldn’t muffle the scuff of his shoes on the floor. Dean tensed and when a hand closed around his elbow, he slashed out with the blade. He half expected to be slicing at shadows but the blade cut something solid and a warm, thick liquid splattered Dean’s face. He heard a gasp followed by a body thumping to the floor.

Feeling for the wall behind him, Dean waited but whatever he’d hit didn’t get back up.

Dean flexed his hand around the knife and caught his lip between his teeth. In the dark, the knowledge of the motionless body at his feet began to sink into his bones. That gasp had sounded surprised and human.

Suddenly Dean wanted a light. He wanted it more than anything. His mouth had gone dry and he licked his lips before he could stop himself. As his tongue flicked out, he tasted blood and flinched.

Pulse racing, Dean edged his way along the wall until his fingertips bumped into a plastic square. He flipped the light-switch and a lamp came on overhead.

The moment he saw the kitchen, Dean understood this circle was tailored for him. And why not?, Maybe Hell adjusted to its visitors just like Heaven, preying on the soul’s best memories.

It was the house Lisa and Ben had lived in when Dean washed up on their doorstep. Dean recognized every detail. The postcards on the cupboards, the chessboard tiles, he knew all of it. Except for the blood on the floor.

Dean cringed, fear cramping his belly and flooding his mouth with sour spit. From his place by the wall, he could see no more than blood; the kitchen island hid the rest. Dean forced his eyes away from the stained floor only to find the blade of his knife dripping red. He remembered the gasp, the drag of his knife when he’d cut something soft and bit back a moan.

The worst thing was (no, not the worst not the worst) he wasn’t even surprised. Part of him had known he’d hurt Lisa and Ben; sooner or later he’d bring the dark down upon them. He’d hoped, though. He’d hoped so much he’d be wrong.

Sorrow settled heavily on his shoulders and clawed into his heart. Slowly, Dean crossed the kitchen, prepared to see Lisa sprawling on the tiles. His hand found the edge of the island and he steadied himself on the smooth granite top.

On the far side of the island, the floor was empty except for a pool of blood and a wide, red smear leading out of the kitchen and into the living room. Tracing his hand along the island, Dean followed the drag marks until they soaked a path into Lisa’s favorite green carpet and stopped. Still there was no body.

Dean crouched down, touched his fingertips to the clean part of the carpet and the edge of the blood trail. It looked like it had been cut off with a guillotine.

What the hell was going on?

 _Hell_ , he told himself. Exactly. He had to remember where he was. None of this was real. None of this had happened.

Dean wiped a hand over his eyes and reached for the coffee table. He was about to get up when he caught his reflection in the glass tabletop. Dean froze, sensing that something was off. It took him a second to realize that his reflection stood upside down, as though the table mirrored someone across the room. Dean looked up and saw himself standing on the far side of the table, hands shoved into his jeans’ pockets.

Slowly, Dean rose to his feet. The room was dim, illuminated only by the light from the kitchen but even so Dean could see that the eyes of his doppelganger were black.

Dean felt his grip on the knife slip and his heart gave one heavy, painful thud. The doppelganger lifted his hands, showing they were dark with blood up to the wrists. He smiled and shrugged and just as his shoulders sunk, the light in the kitchen went out.

 

: : :

 

Dean didn’t know how long he stood frozen in the dark, the afterimage of his demon counterpart burnt into his eyes. Part of him waited for his doppelganger to attack but the rest of him couldn’t think at all. He only knew if the other came for him, he would not be able to defend himself.

It had taken him thirty years to break but this time, Dean knew in his bones that the second the other would touch him, he’d fall apart. Dean remembered the doppelganger’s red hands and felt the blood on his own knuckles, between his fingers, on the hilt of his knife.

He shivered, a moan locked in his throat but before he could let go of the blade, the thought of Sam, of what he would say, cut through his panic.

 _It’s not real, man. Get your shit together and go back to the damn threshold._

Dean clenched his jaw and swallowed the noises that wanted to crawl up into his mouth. He repeated, _this is not real_ , and turned.

Turning his back shook Dean from his daze. He imagined the other staring after him and the hair rose on the nape of his neck but still Dean walked away, one painfully slow step after the other. He reached the kitchen doorway, fumbled for the corner of the wall and steadied himself.

 _Not real_.

Dean drew a breath and put his foot on the kitchen tiles when he heard the doppelganger move with a soft swish of denim on denim. Dean listened to the scuff of boots on the carpet but to his surprise, the other seemed to leave instead of coming closer. Expecting a trap but deciding to return to the threshold no matter what, Dean pushed on into the kitchen. Then he heard the floorboards creak in the hallway and the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. The stairs that led to Ben’s bedroom.

Dean looked back even as part of him insisted it was all made up, a puppet show set up to torture and tempt him. He needed to go back; if he strayed too far from the threshold he might not be able to find it again.

And yet Dean could picture every detail, the shadow moving down the hall and closing on Ben’s door. If he went into Ben’s room, Ben wouldn’t even be afraid, not at first, because he’d never seen the danger in Dean, Dean had never allowed him to. He’d be unprepared.

Suddenly Dean could not bear it, he could not handle the possibility that Ben and Lisa would suffer because Dean had come into their house and brought Hell with him. He had to undo it somehow.

Again he saw his mirror-self, the eyes flicking from black to green like a lizard’s and that jolted him into action. Dean was back in the living-room in a heart-beat, bumped his knee into the coffee table and stumbled on, cold sweat breaking out on his back as he dashed out into the hallway.

 

: : :

 

The glass panel in the front door allowed a square of moonlight onto the stairs but the second floor was dark as tar, no windows, no light squeezing out from under the bedroom doors.

Dean moved slowly down the landing. All his senses were primed to listen for the faintest noise. The carpet gave under his feet, swallowing the sound of his footsteps.

As Dean’s eyes got used to the dark, he made out familiar outlines like the chest of drawers Lisa had bought at the flea-market. He remembered lugging that son of a bitch up the stairs with Sid at the lower end cursing up a blue streak. Lisa had watched them from the foot of the stairs and warned them not to chip a nail or something.

Adjusting his grip on the knife, Dean twitched his head and shook off the memory.

Reaching Ben’s door, he finally heard something, a soft string of music coming from the room. _Zeppelin_ , Dean thought at once and knew that Ben had fallen asleep with his headphones on. They would slip off his ears during the night and Lisa prophesized he’d strangle himself with the plastic cord one day.

Swallowing hard, Dean pushed down the door-handle and slipped inside. The luminescent stars above Ben’s bed glowed and outlined the sheets and the shape of a kid underneath. Dean searched the room, checking if anything moved in the corners but it seemed they were alone.

Did he overtake his doppelganger? Dean didn’t think so.

He moved to Ben’s bedside on tip-toes. When he’d made sure that the sheets rose and fell gently with Ben’s breathing, Dean relaxed a little. He saw the cord of Ben’s headphones curl on the mattress and smiled.

That smile lasted until Dean realized he stood over Ben’s bed like yellow-eyes had loomed over Sam’s crib. Dean even held up the knife as if he was ready to strike.

Shocked, Dean jerked down his arm and staggered away from the bed. He remembered stabbing into the dark and hitting a living person he never even saw. His hand opened around the hilt and Dean let the knife drop as if it had burned his palm.

Who was the real danger here? The demon, or him?

Was there a difference?

Dean turned around with his heart hammering in his chest and almost bumped into his doppelganger. The other had appeared behind Dean without a sound and the second Dean faced him, the demon’s hand was at his throat.

Dean didn’t pause to think. He knocked the other’s arm away, grabbed the lapels of his shirt and drove him into the nearest wall. The demon smiled, took hold of Dean’s shoulders and headbutted him hard enough to break Dean’s nose.

Stunned, Dean stumbled back. The pain was so intense his vision faded in and out, but he could still see the demon sidestep him and go for the bed.

“No,” Dean grunted and made a grab for the demon’s shoulder. He ducked the other’s roundhouse and landed a punch to his ribs before the demon flung him bodily through the room. Dean crashed into the doorframe, fresh pain exploding in his spine, and dropped to the floor. Lying half-in and half-out of the room, Dean pushed up on his elbow but couldn’t lift his body any further.

The demon followed, slow, almost casually, and kicked Dean’s feet with the tip of his boot. He reached down, twisted his hand around a fistful of Dean’s shirt and pulled Dean to his feet as if he weighed nothing. He crowded Dean against the doorframe and brought his face close to Dean. In the safe warmth of Lisa’s house, the demon’s breath drifted white and cold against Dean’s cheek. The demon tilted his head, black eyes shining as he studied Dean with that ever-same smile, a curl of his mouth that said he’d already won.

Dean clutched the demon’s wrist but didn’t find the strength to do more, his face throbbing and blood trickling wet from his nose. He tasted it in the back of his throat, too. Angry, helpless, he waited for his doppelganger to finish him off.

The demon leaned closer and the tickle of his stubble made Dean’s skin crawl. He almost let go of the other’s wrist because he didn’t want to touch, to connect with him in any way. But with the demon molded against him he couldn’t escape and the weight of the other’s body brought back the weight of the chains, the agony of being trapped that ended with Dean’s transformation, a change he’d welcomed like water after an endless drought.

A change that lived on in the steel grip of the creature that pinned Dean to the wall, the demon that wore Dean’s face.  
Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, the demon lifted the knife Dean had dropped and put the blade against the side of Dean’s throat. His nose brushed the shell of Dean’s ear before he whispered. “Welcome home.”

The words hit Dean like a fist to the face but as the taunt sank in, Dean’s anger switched into white-hot fury. _Home_ , he thought, home wasn’t this. All his life people had told Dean he belonged in Hell. Demons, angels and hunters, they’d all smelled the brimstone on his skin and decided he lived above on borrowed time. Many times Dean had believed it too. For months after Cas had saved him he’d waited for the ground to split open under his feet.

But he had been saved. He’d clawed his way out of his own grave, he’d run as far as possible from the Pit and now this? Now they told him yet again Hell was the only road open to him and they used the one place where he’d found peace to hammer it in?

Dean clenched both hands around the demon’s arm and looked past him at the stars on Ben’s ceiling. The demon followed his gaze and lifted an eyebrow, his question obvious, _You think you belong with them?_

Maybe he didn’t, Dean thought. But he didn’t belong in hellfire either. He was different from the demon in front of him and he would not end here.

Heedless of the pain and the steel at his throat, Dean rammed his knee up between the demon’s legs. Demon or no, the bastard cringed in pain. The knife nicked Dean’s neck but Dean hardly noticed. He punched the demon in the face, shoved him out into the hall and spit out blood.

Hand pressed over his crotch, the demon glared up at him.

“You don’t know what home is, you black-eyed son of a bitch,” Dean growled and drew back his fist.

 

: : :

 

They wrestled until they banged into the window at the end of the hallway and the shutter came down around them. Moonlight flooded in and spilled over the demon’s pale face, revealing specks that could be freckles or spattered blood.

Dean kept swinging and aimed his blows for the demon’s chin, his cheeks and nose, wanting nothing more than to obliterate him, to beat him out of existence and destroy the likeness of their faces.

The other let him, moved with Dean’s attacks as if it were a dance and he expected any step Dean made. He spun Dean around and whenever the demon got back in control, Dean got angrier until the hatred for his counterpart burned away every rhyme and reason.

Dean snatched a lamp from the chest of drawers and smashed it over the demon’s head before he tripped him off his feet. The demon went down with a crash and Dean jumped after him, dropped the lamp and kicked the demon in the ribs. Dean drew back his leg but before he could land another kick, the demon turned up his face and Dean froze. The eyes that looked at him were no longer black but human. The face was bruised and pained and, yes, beat almost beyond recognition.

Confused, Dean drew back, caught his reflection in a picture on the wall and there he saw: His own eyes had turned black as pitch.

“No,” Dean whispered and backed away, stepping on the broken lamp in the process.

Lizard eyes switching back to black, the demon flowed back to his feet and slipped behind Dean in a flash. He pushed Dean into the chest of drawers and banged his head on the wood, a broad hand on the back of his skull forcing Dean to stay down.

The demon’s breath puffed against his neck like he was laughing. _We’re the same_ , Dean thought. _He knows it too_.

Dean felt the tears come hot and angry and squeezed his eyes shut. When the demon leaned into his back, Dean twisted his shoulders but couldn’t evade the whisper against his ear.

 _Birds of a feather_.

Dean bucked and struggled until he shook the demon off his back. He was free for a whole second before a hand settled on his shoulder.

“Dean?”

He swung blindly and without thinking, wanting only for this nightmare to stop. Clothes rustled as the other avoided Dean’s fist.

“Dean!”

A part of Dean realized that the voice didn’t belong to the demon but he kept fighting all the same, slapping away the hands that wanted to grab him until strong fingers closed around his arm and swung him into the nearest wall.

As his back hit the Sheetrock, Dean’s eyes flew open and he recognized Cas frowning at him. Even then, Dean would’ve clawed his way free but Cas gripped both his shoulders and held him still. He sounded almost startled as if he didn’t know what had come over Dean. “Dean, stop.”

“Where is he?” Dean rasped and dug his fingers into the sleeves of Cas’ trench-coat.

“There’s no-one here,” Cas said. “We’re alone. Dean. Calm down.”

Cas grip relaxed when Dean stopped struggling but Dean still clung to him, knowing his legs would give the moment he let go. Cas eyes flicked to the ceiling and the lights came on, pushing the shadows back into the corners.

“We’re alone,” Cas repeated and seeing it was so, Dean slumped back against the wall. He swallowed then touched his face, but it was all sound and clean. Like his nose had never been broken, like he’d imagined the whole thing. Only his hands were still stained with blood.

 

: : :

 

As soon as Cas let go of him, Dean stumbled for the bathroom. The chill of the demon’s breath still clung to the side of Dean’s neck and his stomach churned with nausea. He made it to the sink and fumbled with the tap. The mirror lamps reflected off the white tiles and Dean soaked up the brightness.

Holding his hands under the hot, running water, Dean scrubbed his palms and fingers until the blood came off. His stomach settled, a little at least, but this place still felt too real. He even smelled Lisa’s orange blossom and vanilla soap and it was too god damn much. Dean splashed water into his face, wiped his sleeve over his eyes before he turned off the tap with shaking hands.

Cas waited quietly behind him but Dean couldn’t go with him, not yet. He gripped the edge of the sink and did his best to calm down but the skin on his arms was still covered in goosebumps, echoing with the touch of his doppelganger.

“What was that?” Dean asked. “What the fuck was that?”

Cas didn’t answer and Dean looked back over his shoulder, catching the hesitant frown on Cas’ face. “You know, don’t you?” Dean demanded. “I didn’t just imagine that son of a bitch. He was here.”

“Yes,” Cas admitted. He picked up a towel and gave it to Dean. “But I wouldn’t say it was a ‘he’.”

“What then?” Dean asked and took the towel to dry his hands.

“Dean,” Cas tried but Dean cut him off.

“Tell me.”

Regret was written all over Cas’ face but he still gave in. “Every soul that has been in Hell long enough leaves a trace,” he explained. “A shadow.”

Feeling like the floor slowly came apart under his feet, Dean finished drying his hands and looked up at the mirror again. The glass was blind, fogged over by the water’s steam. He only saw a pale blur where his face should be.

He knew what Cas’ answer meant. Part of him had felt the truth of it even before. He hadn’t faced off his doppelganger, he’d met himself: Not a separate being but a mirror, made off him and ultimately tied to him. The sum and consequence of his actions.

The piece of him that hadn’t left Hell and never would.

Cas touched his elbow and Dean could tell he would’ve liked to spare Dean the knowledge. He wondered how long Cas had known. “It’s not a part of you anymore,” Cas said softly. “It’s just an echo.”

Dean heard him but he knew better. You couldn’t separate a shadow from the person who cast it.

As he watched, the steam on the mirror condensed and ran down the glass in ragged streaks, revealing parts of his face and turning it into a distorted mask. He still couldn’t quite make out the color of his eyes.

Dean clenched his fist around the towel before dropping it into the sink. “Get me out of here, please.”

Cas’ hand tightened on his arm before he stepped away. He held out Dean’s knife and Dean had to force up his hand to take it. He could tell Cas wanted to talk to him, to make it better, but Dean couldn’t deal with that. Not then.

“Please,” he repeated and Cas nodded.

“This way.”

  
**5  
The Stygian Plains**   


  
_This question haunts me: What happens when you die in Hell? Would your body unravel around you, fray apart and leave your soul raw, naked and stripped? A ready feast for demons? Would the path to Heaven be forever closed even to the virtuous if they died in Hell?  
This question haunts me._  
—Dante’s Diary, vol.5 p.51

_____________________________________________________

Cas took the lead and Dean kept his eyes fixed on his back, ignoring the open door to Ben’s bedroom and the fleamarket chest. He tried not to notice anything familiar.

Cas headed back down the stairs and took a left turn in the hall. Sam waited by the staircase that led into Lisa’s basement, holding the door open for them. When he saw Dean, he quirked a brow. “Are you okay?”

Dean barged past him, ignored Sam’s surprised, "Whoa," and hurried down the stairs. He felt queasy again, tasting the bile at the back of his throat. He wondered if he would ever be able to think of this place without feeling sick. He’d squandered his chance for a settled life, would he now lose the comfort of remembering Lisa and Ben too?

More than anything, Dean wanted to blot out the idea of his soul-shadow haunting Lisa’s home and if that didn’t work, at least put some distance between himself and the moment of corruption.

A naked light-bulb swung overhead, barely illuminating the way down. Dean slipped in his haste, elbow banging against the plywood wall.

“Dean,” Cas warned. Dean heard him and Sam coming after him but he kept his eyes trained on the next step and the next. He was so intent on getting away, he missed the change in the air until a strong metallic smell brought him up short. At first Dean thought his skin still reeked of blood but then he identified the sharp, fishy combination of chlorine and algae. At the foot of the stairwell, a glass door came into view and Dean knew they were about to cross over into another circle.

Good.

“Dean, slow down!” Cas called out but Dean couldn’t stop, he didn’t want to and most of all, he didn’t want to look back. He reached the glass door and stepped through, the reek of old pool water slamming into his face.

The fifth circle came in the shape of a cellar or, more precisely, a vault. Small tiles covered the floor and walls, forming intricate mosaics. A swimming pool dominated the center of the room and there was where the smell and the light came from. It looked like there were lamps submerged in the pool so the water glowed green and cast rippling reflections around the room. Tiled pillars lined the pool on either side.

Dean shivered, feeling the cold air shift around him. He started to walk into the vault but Cas’ sharp voice stopped him.

“Dean, wait.”

Turning, Dean saw Cas looking up. With a sinking feeling Dean followed Cas’ gaze and discovered that the pillars reached up into a darkness that seemed infinite. There was no ceiling, only a black maw. The one thing Dean could make out was a grid of beams crisscrossing the abyss above their heads. On one of the beams Dean spotted a crouching figure, pale limbs shimmering faintly in the shadows. He heard Cas whisper, “Rahab,” then something grabbed Dean and hurled him across the vault.

Dean twisted, hit the pool with a splash and went under. He breathed on reflex and gagged, water gushing down his throat and up his nose. Before he even touched the bottom of the pool, something jumped in after him and bore down on his chest with a choking weight.

The glare from the submerged lamps blinded Dean but he still saw the creature forcing him underwater. It was a man, or a grotesque semblance of one, white hair floating around his narrow face like sea-weed. His arms seemed unnaturally long and his hands clamped down on Dean’s shoulders. Dean caught a glimpse of wings with dying feathers rippling along the bones.

Black dots dancing before his eyes, Dean flashed back to Cas telling him about the rebellious angels that had been cast into Hell.

 _How many fallen angels are there?_

 _More than you think._

Dean struggled, straining against the angel’s grip and swallowing more water. His chest drew tight and his lungs screamed for oxygen, but he couldn’t move, he might as well have been trapped under a boulder.

A wave rolled along his skin just when his vision started to black out. The ground shook once, then all the water shot out of the pool with a deafening rush, slapped against the walls of the basement and rained onto the floor

The angel Cas had called Rahab jerked up his head and shot off Dean’s chest in a rustle of once more invisible wings. Gasping for air, Dean rolled over onto his knees and threw up water. Muscles quivering, he crawled toward the side of the pool. His fingertips brushed one of the algae-caked lamps when a hand closed around his wrist.

Dean looked up and saw Sam hanging over the side of the pool. “Come on,” Sam called, reached down to grab Dean with both hands and pulled. Dean shook off his daze, grabbed Sam’s arm and managed to heave himself onto the basement floor.

Forcing more air into his aching lungs, Dean clutched at Sam’s sleeve, then craned his head until he caught sight of Cas on the far side of the pool. Two fallen angels circled him, their shoulders hunched, overdeveloped shoulder-blades tenting their shirts. As Dean watched, another angel dropped from the ceiling and together they crowded Cas toward the wall.

Dean’s hand shot to his knife but Sam grabbed his collar and pulled Dean to look to the other end of the basement.

“We get Cas, we go that way,” Sam grunted and pointed at another sliding door. Dean nodded but before he could even get to his feet, something landed with a heavy thud behind them.

Dean shoved Sam aside and his brother rolled to safety. Dean had time to pull his demon-knife then the angel was on him, dry, chapped hands closing around Dean’s throat. Dean didn’t think the knife would do any good, using it was instinct only, but when he rammed the blade into the angel’s thigh, the angel jerked back.

Dean barely managed to hold onto his knife when another blast of hard air hit him squarely in the chest. The angel flung Dean across the floor and he hit the wall back first, dropping down on his side like a sack of wet laundry.

The angel popped up right in front of him and planted his foot on Dean’s chest. Dean caught a glimpse of the creature’s vacant face and his white, mole-blind eyes, then the angel pushed down his heel and Dean screamed.

Pain exploding all along his ribcage, Dean dropped the knife and clawed at the angel’s leg. The angel took his time, increasing the pressure little by little. Dean felt his ribs crack and tried to shrink away, but the wall at his back trapped him.

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam coming for them and he clenched his teeth, fumbled for the knife and pushed it Sam’s way. The blade skidded across the floor and Sam snatched it up in full run. He cut the angel’s arm and dodged out of reach. The angel snarled, head swerving in Sam’s direction and Dean used the distraction to clamp both hands around the angel’s foot and push. To his surprise, it worked.

The angel went down with a high yell, hand flying to the gash in his shoulder. Dean caught a glimpse of blue pulsing between the angel’s fingers, then Sam was back, dropping down on his knees, straddling the angel’s chest and stabbing him in the throat.

As the angel’s heels thrummed on the floor, Dean scrambled to his feet and pulled Sam off the fallen creature, afraid of the counter attack. The angel didn’t get up though. A murky purple light flashed around the knife wound, flickering under his skin like sheet lightning. The angel seized, flopping and twitching like a fish out of water.

“What the—” Sam breathed only to have another scream drown the rest of his sentence.

A bright light flashed across the room and Dean spun around to see Cas pull his sword from the third angel’s chest. Cas easily turned his blade to gut angel number four but the first angel, the one who’d almost drowned Dean, circled around Cas and came at him with a short lance clutched in both hands.

Dean saw what was going to happen but before he could open his mouth, Rahab struck out with his spear and stabbed Cas in the back.

“Cas,” Sam called but Dean was already off and running, despite the pain racing through his ribs with every breath. He was too late, though, too far away to make a difference. Rahab pulled his spear from Cas’ back and when Cas turned to block the next blow, the other angel swiped his blade across Cas’ face.

Dean didn’t waste his breath yelling he just ran faster, not carrying a weapon and not caring. Suddenly Sam was beside him and the two of them bowled full tilt into Rahab, tackling him off his feet and away from Cas.

They all came down in a heap, legs tangling and elbows jarring. Dean’s nose filled with a sweet, rotting smell and the sound of rustling feathers engulfed him. Sam used the knife, razing the blade across Rahab’s shoulder and Dean, not knowing what else to do, dug both hands into Rahab’s hair and jerked back his head. The angel squirmed between them until he was suddenly gone, their fists closing on nothing. A split second later, Sam was yanked up into the air, flipped like a pancake and dashed back down onto the ground.

Dean heard the sickening crash of tiles then Rahab appeared above him, his foot crushing down on Dean’s throat. Dean clutched the angel’s boot but could do nothing except watch as Rahab lifted his lance.

As Dean stared at the spear aiming for his heart he knew he’d lost. He tensed for the blow but Rahab suddenly flinched and threw back his head. A sword-tip pushed through at the base of Rahab’s throat and the angel’s mouth fell open in a mute gasp.

Rahab’s foot let up first, then the spear cluttered from his hands. Dean squeezed his eyes shut just in time but the explosion of white light still seared his face. As the light dimmed, Dean heard Rahab’s body hit the ground and smelled the stench of burnt feathers.

Opening his eyes, Dean saw Cas crouching over Rahab’s body, still clutching his sword. His trenchcoat had slipped off one shoulder and Cas’ back rose and fell with shuddering breaths. He swayed like he was about to keel over.

Dean pushed up on his elbows but the way Cas bowed over the fallen angel, Dean couldn’t see his face. He saw the blood drenching Cas’ collar, though, and felt his stomach turn, one thought clear in his head.

 _Please, no_.

Dean opened his mouth to say Cas’ name but no noise made it up his throat. He swallowed but by then, Sam had got back on his feet and helped Cas up. He also swooped the fallen angel’s spear off the floor and hoisted the weapon onto his shoulder.

“Dean,” Sam urged, herding Cas away from Rahab.

Dean winced and climbed to his feet, bones grating like broken glass in his chest. Sam and Cas already stumbled past the pool, Sam checking back over his shoulder to make sure Dean followed.

“Go,” Dean croaked, gaze flicking upward. He thought he saw more movement up in the eaves and heard a sound like pigeons fluttering in the dome of a church. “Go,” Dean repeated and they set off running.

When Cas slipped on the last stretch and Sam caught him, Dean overtook them and banged into the sliding doors, hands scrabbling for the handle. He slid one panel to the side and they all tumbled through, Cas dropping to his knees. Dean slammed the door shut behind them and the second the panel clicked into place, all went silent.

Turning, Dean dropped back against the door and felt his heart beat hard against his aching ribs.


	3. 3/4

  
**6  
The Burning City of Dis**   


  
_For two years he drove hither and thither in every direction. His only home were the various inns; and the most beautiful things in the towns he visited possessed for him no pleasure. No picture, no house, no music, no pleasure stirred his feelings. His heart was as cold as a stone, and his eyes and ears seemed closed to everything worth seeing or hearing. The only pleasure left to him consisted in eating, drinking, and sleeping; and his whole life was spent in driving about, living well, and sleeping from sheer boredom._  
—Wilhelm Hauff’s A Heart of Stone

_____________________________________________________

The sixth circle was fallout country, a skeleton of a city with broken houses and mounds of rubble. Street-signs had folded in on themselves, their captions charred beyond recognition. The sky above the townscape had turned a deep, vermilion red and the sun seemed to swim rather than shine, its round shape stretched to a blotch along the horizon.

A pocked and blistered road cut through the ruins and old rain-water glistened in the pavement cracks. Dean and Sam stumbled along the cooked blacktop, carrying Cas along between them. Once they put some distance between them and the threshold, they stopped and eased Cas down to the ground. Carefully, Dean helped Cas lean against a brick wall and crouched down in front of him.

Cas’ face was a wreck, cut up and bruised, blood streaking his cheeks and clotting what Dean hoped were Cas’ closed eyes. With all this mess it was hard to assess the damage but the wound seemed closed already; at least Cas was no longer bleeding.

Dean dipped two fingers into a puddle and sucked at his wet fingertips. The water tasted brackish but not sour. Praying he wouldn’t do more harm, Dean soaked his handkerchief and set about cleaning Cas’ face. When he reached for Cas’ chin and turned his face sideways, Cas twitched and pulled away.

“Easy,” Dean murmured, falling into the tenor he’d used when Sam was little and Dean had to fix his scraped knees. His hand trembled as he touched Cas’ cheek again, dabbing off the drying blood as gently as he could.

The wound had indeed closed, indicating that Cas’ healing mojo had kicked in right away. The gash Rahab had torn across Cas’ face had scabbed over, leaving an ugly bolt of scar tissue and inflamed skin above Cas’ nose and cheeks. No doubt Rahab had set out to blind Cas, swiping his spear-tip across Cas’ eyes. He’d succeeded. Cas’ eyes were gone, vanished behind swollen and shredded eyelids.

Dean clutched the handkerchief too tight and dirty water trickled down his wrist. He remembered his run down the stairs, his eagerness to get away and cursed himself for running headlong into the fifth circle. Cas had told him to stop. If he’d only hung back and heeded Cas’ warning—

“Jesus, Cas,” Sam said and the worry in his voice sounded genuine. “Can you heal?”

Cas didn’t answer right away. He let out another breath, went still and seemed to test his grace. Nothing happened. “Not just now,” he murmured and Dean closed his eyes.

He still held the handkerchief against Cas’ temple and Cas reached up to touch the back of his hand. Dean bit the inside of his lip and pulled away, guilt flaring like a bushfire in his chest.

“It could be worse,” Cas said and his mouth quirked. “I’m still standing. Or, you know, sitting.”

Dean clenched his jaw, swallowed the sob that wanted out and turned back to Cas. “The whole joking in the face of death thing?” he said. “Needs practice.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Shit, man, you lied to me,” Sam joined in, nudging Dean’s shoulder with his knee. “You guys got souls and you still make bad jokes.”

“Shut up, Tinman.” Dean put away his handkerchief but his eyes kept slipping back to Cas. Like things would change if he just checked one more time.

“Are you in pain?” Sam asked and Dean flinched.

“It’s just my vessel,” Cas said, quietly. “The pain is on the surface.”

Which didn’t mean ‘no’. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he could press a fast-forward button and place all of them in the ninth circle. Or better yet, beyond Hell, back home. “Okay. So what now?”

“We go on,” Cas said and Dean snorted.

“Yeah I appreciate the chutzpah, but maybe we should slow down some.” When Cas didn’t reply, Dean rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe he had to spell it out. “You’re blind, Cas.”

“I’m fine,” Cas insisted. “I don’t need eyes to find my way.”

Figures, Dean thought. Of all the angels, he had to be saddled with the winged version of Sylvester fucking Stallone. Although he couldn’t deny that Cas’ stubbornness made him feel a little better. “Okay, tough guy,” Dean challenged and leaned in. “Go on and touch my nose then.”

Cas reached out and whacked him upside the head instead.

“Point taken,” Sam said, amused. “I’m going to walk a bit and sniff out the next threshold.”

“So you’re sensing them now?” Dean asked, looking back over his shoulder.

Sam shrugged. “Yeah. Seems so.” He shoved one hand into his pocket and started down the road, sidestepping another puddle. He still carried the fallen angel’s spear.

Dean looked after Sam, feeling too battered to worry. Maybe he was letting his guard down, but if Sam wanted to hurt them, couldn’t he just have stepped out of Rahab’s way?

When Dean turned back, Cas was taking off his tie. “Can you tie this around my eyes, please?” he asked and held out the limp strip of fabric.

“Sure,” Dean said. “You’re afraid the wound will open up again?”

“I don’t want to risk Hell seeping in through the cracks in my vessel,” Cas explained and Dean’s stomach fell.

“Okay. No problem.” He took the tie and wound it around Cas’ head. Even as he secured the bandage with a knot, Dean couldn’t get over how wrong this all felt. He’d become so used to Cas bouncing back from every injury, he had trouble accepting that Cas wouldn’t heal right away. Hell, the guy had blown up twice. Who could blame Dean for thinking him indestructible?

He wasn’t, though. He wasn’t, Dean repeated and clamped down on the urge to touch Cas’ cheek again.

He’d thought he could handle it, but to see Cas hurt broke something inside him. Dean could feel his courage crumbling and he wished, for a moment, that they’d never come here. All the layers of Hell seemed to weigh down on him, trapping them in this hole without an exit.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said and he meant it with all his heart. It was the same old song. He needed people who fought with him because he alone would never be enough to hold back the dark. So selfishly, foolishly, he was grateful for Cas, for him being here, for sticking by Dean’s side. He could only trust the ones he loved and they were always the first to get hurt.

Cas shrugged, his fingertips brushing the tie, tugging it into place. “I’ll be all right once we’re back up.”

His words should be a relief but looking at the makeshift bandage around Cas’ face, Dean had trouble focusing on the bright side. They still had four circles ahead of them and no plan how to climb out of Hell once they got Sam’s soul. If they got their hands on it.

Crouching on the side of the ruined road, Dean felt a wave of weariness roll over him and rubbed his fingertips over his forehead. When he dropped his arm, pain flared up his side and Dean gritted his teeth. With a sigh, he looked down and touched the place where the fallen angel’s boot had crushed his ribs. His side hurt like nobody’s business, but Dean thought he could deal with it. He was lucky, really. He had an idea the angel had meant to kick in his ribcage and stomp on his heart.

Proving he was aware of his surroundings, Cas tilted his head, said, “You’re hurt,” and reached out.

Dean slapped his hand away. “Don’t you dare,” he growled. “You save your strength.”

Cas clucked his tongue and before Dean could stop him, fitted his palm against Dean’s ribs. For a split second, the pain doubled and choked the breath from Dean’s lungs, then the sting eased and faded. A pool of warmth spread up along Dean’s flank like a caress.

“I’m not useless,” Cas said, voice low and firm.

Dean looked at him, heart in his throat. “I never said you were.”

He was well aware of Cas’ hand on him, a gentle pressure against his side. Cas could have let go but he didn’t and for the moment, Dean was grateful. Without thinking, he leaned into the touch and Cas’ fingers curled into his shirt.

When Cas took away his hand, Dean huffed, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“I thought healing was off the table,” Dean said, his mouth dry.

“My grace isn’t gone,” Cas explained. “I just can’t direct it to the places where I’m damaged.”

“So you squander your mojo on me.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas said and sank back against the wall.

Dean let out a breath. He brushed his fingertips over the spot where Cas had healed him, shook his hand and dropped his hand to his thigh. “You know,” he said, “one of these days we should hang out without the world going to shit all around us.”

Cas leaned his head against the brick. “I’d like that.”

Dean didn’t miss the fact that for all his tough talk, Cas still hadn’t stood up.

“I could take you fishing,” Dean suggested and reached out to pull the lapels of Cas’ dislodged coat back into place. The moment it had popped out of his mouth he decided he liked the idea. They’d go some place nice, near the mountains maybe, rent a cabin and spent a few days by the river. He’d show Cas how to cast a fly and they could barbeque their catch in the evening. It’d be their scrap of peace, with no thoughts of war or other consequences.

“Montana has nice rivers,” Cas said with a small smile tugging at his lips.

Dean smiled back. “It’s a date.” It was a stupid thing to say, but Cas, bless him, didn’t notice the awkward choice of words.

Any other time, any other place, Dean would have flopped down beside Cas and caught some rest. He couldn’t afford to now. They should get going. Dean suspected they’d only avoided detection so far because they’d passed through the infernal circles as fast as possible. And who knew what inhabited this layer. The longer they stayed, the more they risked another confrontation.

Dean knew all this and yet he didn’t want to get up. He looked down the road, saw Sam pacing left and right and decided to wait until Sam gave the signal to head out.

If that was indeed what Sam planned to do.

“You still don’t trust him,” Cas stated, picking up on Dean’s thoughts easily.

Nibbling at the inside of his lip, Dean tried to put all the complicated shit he felt when looking at Sam into words. Yeah, he thought. Good luck with that. “It’s hard,” he admitted.

“I saw him fight against the Irin,” Cas said. “He saved us back there.”

“I know.” Dean hesitated, then asked the question that nagged him the most. “Why is he doing it, Cas? Why’s he coming along?”

Cas frowned. “My guess is as good as yours,” he said. “I watch him strike out for his soul and I think of a moth flying for a flame.”

“Sounds about right,” Dean muttered and once again felt a sense of unease stir in his gut. If Sam’s soul was a furnace then Dean was the one pushing Sam into the hatch. It was the right thing though, wasn’t it? Reuniting Sam with his missing centerpiece?

“Dean,” Cas said, calling Dean back from his thoughts. “Go.”

When Dean hesitated, Cas shoved gently at his knee.

“Go talk to your brother.”

 

: : :

 

Sam leaned against a streetlamp with the angel spear propped against his shoulder and his head tipped back in Cas-like fashion. Dean walked up to him and crossed his arms over his chest. “Any luck?”

“Getting there.” Sam pushed away from the lamp-post and looked back at Cas. “How is he?”

“He’s tough,” Dean said. “You know—”

“—for a little nerdy guy with wings?” Sam finished.

Dean smiled ruefully. “Yeah.”

He looked out over the collapsed roofs and watched the sun sink upwards, darkness trickling down from above. Sam took position by his shoulder and it was so damn familiar, standing side by side, waiting for the night to come on. They were only missing the Impala and a sixpack.

Dean felt his shoulders slump. He was so damn tired of swinging back and forth between distrust and wanting to trust with every fibre of his being.

“Listen,” he began. “I don’t know how to say this, but you really came through back there.”

Sam turned the spear idly in his hand, the steel tip rotating on the concrete. “You still sound surprised.”

“Yeah, after all the shit you pulled, I guess you can cut me some slack,” Dean snapped before he reined himself in. “I came here to thank you, you know.”

Sam huffed and Dean clenched his jaw. “Just take it,” Dean muttered.

He could sense that Sam itched to give him a piece of his mind but had bit down on whatever waited on the tip of his tongue and it made Dean nervous. He’d never been able to handle Sam’s silent treatment, no matter whether it came from the old, the new, or the whatever-he-was-now Sam.

Sam searched Dean’s face as if he looked for something specific before he stared back at the broken city. “You don’t care about me,” Sam stated. “If it were a choice between me and whoever you think is your precious Sammy you’d handfeed me to the lions in a heartbeat.”

Dean flinched, dug his fingers into his sleeves. “That’s not true, man.”

“No?” Sam asked. “So you don’t think I’m a placeholder?”

Dean’s first impulse was to deny the accusation but he couldn’t summon the words. Maybe because Sam would’ve been right not so long ago. Dean _had_ come to think of present Sam as an empty double, a receptacle for Sam’s real self but damnit, every cold decision Sam had made had cemented that conclusion. Letting Dean get turned, allowing Cas to torture a kid, all actions that had been borne from logic minus compassion, the cogs and gears of Sam’s brain turning without empathy.

It had hurt seeing Sam like that, not possessed but hollowed out, and yeah, Dean had seized on the explanation that the man who’d thrown him to the fangs was not his brother. But down here, Sam, _this_ Sam, seemed changed: Closer to the brother Dean grew up with, if maybe harder, more aloof.

Could it be Sam wasn’t separated from his soul but only disconnected? Dean had promised himself to keep a safe distance, to mistrust Sam until he’d been resouled but what if the proximity of his essence was already jumpstarting Sam’s emotions and scruples like city lights rebooting after a blackout?

Dean didn’t put his doubts into words, though, and Sam took his silence as confirmation. “You think I’m standing between you and your real brother,” he went on. “So you’d risk me, I get it. I just didn’t think you’d be ready to lose Cas too.”

“I’m— What?” Dean swallowed, trying to snatch a hold of the conversation as it fell clean through his fingers. Cas? What?

Sam looked at him and shook his head. “Man. You’re so far up the river denial you’re having tea with Richard Burton.”

Dean clenched his hands around his arms, feeling a dim ache way deep in his heart as if Sam had touched a sore spot there. He didn’t like to be called on the simple surface of his friendship with Cas, much less on the weird vibe that thrummed underneath. He knew beating off to the mental image of Cas’ mouth on a beer bottle put them outside the just-drinking-buddies box, but he hadn’t figured out what that meant for him. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. Besides, Cas had never made a move either. Maybe he didn’t bother with anything sex-related in the first place or maybe they were both pretending the elephant in the room was just another reading lamp. Not the best strategy, either way, but Dean would do Hell and discuss Cas in the devil’s frontyard.

“I’m not denying squat,” Dean muttered. This discussion wasn’t about Cas, anyway, so why bring him up? To put Dean off balance, make him doubt the purpose of going on? Sam’s next words seemed to suggest exactly that.

“Uh-huh,” Sam laughed. “I just hope this whole trip is worth it.”

“It is,” Dean said and Sam quirked his brows in surprise. “We can’t walk away, Sam.”

“Sure we can!”

“No.” Dean reached out and closed his hand over the angel spear, right above Sam’s grip. “Not as long as Lucifer has your soul.” He stepped up to Sam, willing him to understand. Of course Dean worried about the aftermath of their mission but he would never question the necessity of rescuing Sam’s soul from an eternity of torture. “You say you’ve got all his, all _your_ memories,” Dean continued, rushing past the slip of his tongue. “‘Leave no man behind’, you remember that too?”

“So instead of giving up the soul, you’d rather destroy both of us by stitching us together?”

“You don’t know that will happen,” Dean insisted and pushed down his own anxiety about the soul’s condition as deep as it would go. He still hoped they’d be able to alleviate the pain.

Sam, drawing closer to his traumatized soul, didn’t. “Yes, I do,” he said and turned aside.

He was afraid, Dean realized and let go off the spear Terrified about what would happen to him once he fused with his soul. Quite a change for someone who’d claimed that nothing scared him anymore.

“If we get to my soul and I don’t want it, what are you going to do?” Sam asked. “Cram it down my throat?”

Dean stiffened, horrified that Sam would expect that kind of treatment from him. “Course not!”

“So you’d, what, put my soul in a jar and live with me as I am?” Sam challenged. “You’d accept me as your brother?”

When Dean was stuck for an answer, Sam’s eyes flashed with hurt before they went cold.

Sam’s disappointment slipped right past Dean’s defenses. He watched Sam smooth the anger from his face and for a moment, Dean felt the wild urge to give in and reach out, to assure Sam they’d get through this together.

And why shouldn’t he? Sam had been on his side the whole time they’d walked through Hell, nothing he’d done justified Dean’s suspicions. On the contrary: Sam had protected him and Cas and led them true over the latest threshold.

If Dean could hold on to the belief that Sam-as-was didn’t have a shred of human sentiment inside him, keeping his distance would be easy. But Dean couldn’t, not anymore. He didn’t know if Sam’s protectiveness was a signal boost from his soul or if it was something he’d developed as an independent person. Maybe it wasn’t as clear cut as fake-Sam versus real-Sam. Maybe it was just damn confusing.

Dean watched Sam run a hand back through his hair and felt like he ran out of reasons to reject him.

When Sam started down the road, Dean called him back. “Sam, wait.”

“Yeah, don’t try man,” Sam called back without looking. “Threshold’s in that direction. Better get Cas.”

 

**7  
Cocytus**

_When Hermod came upon the gates of Hell, he jumped right over them and entered the great hall of the dead. There he saw his brother Baldr and he begged Hel to release him because Baldr was loved by all and no-one could stand to be without him. Hel was skeptical and agreed to release Baldr on the condition that everything, dead or alive, should weep for him. If only one thing should not cry, then she would keep Baldr in the realm of the dead._  
—Encyclopedia Mythica

_____________________________________________________

Once Cas got back to his feet he marched without guidance, proving that he didn’t need his eyes to coordinate his steps. Under Sam’s guidance the three of them made it to the next threshold, which turned out to be a sewer and a ladder down into the dark. After a short descend, Sam disappeared through a square hole and Dean followed, emerging into cold and open air.

Climbing down the last few rungs of the ladder, Dean jumped off onto a steel grid platform overlooking a vast, black sea.

The seventh circle, as it turned out, came in shape of a steel tower with a rotating floodlight mounted on top. The lighthouse beam pierced the night but even in its glare Dean could see nothing but roiling water.

By the time Cas stepped off the ladder, Sam had moved to the edge of the platform and Dean and Cas joined him there. The sea heaved all around them, restless waves dashing against the mound of rock the tower stood on. Dean began to wonder where the hell they should go when he spotted the top of a narrow stairway to his left.

“Down?” he asked, hoping against hope for another option.

“Down,” Sam agreed and zipped up his jacket against the cold.

Dean shot a careful glance over the side of the lighthouse. It looked like two other platforms segmented the tower but other than that, the construction consisted of nothing but air and steel. Much like a drilling rig.

When he turned back, Dean saw Cas heading for the stairway without even touching the handrail for guidance. It made Dean dizzy watching Cas like that, with the blindfold over his eyes and his coat whipping in the strong wind, but Cas’ sense of direction didn’t fail and his stride never slowed.

In fact, he seemed to be a lot more confident than Dean felt at the moment.

They started down the stairs in single file, with Cas in the lead and Sam bringing up the rear. Rain and spray had slicked up the staircase and the railing gleamed wet every time the lighthouse beam brushed past overhead.

“I don’t like this shit,” Dean muttered, peering down past his feet and through the steel grid steps. The stairs spiraled downward with nothing beneath them but a sheer drop and a field of stone far, far below. The wind tore at Dean’s jacket and buffeted into his side with every step. He could hear the waves crash against the rocks and the tower creak. The whole construct seemed to vibrate and swing under Dean’s steps.

He didn’t like it at all.

Every now and then he looked back to check how Sam was doing. The wind beat at him, too, blowing his hair sideways and pushing Sam up against the railing. Dean watched Sam grab the handhold as he inched from one stair to the next.

Turning around, Dean climbed down toward the next platform and clenched his teeth as the next stair gave a little. A fresh gust howled through the girders, rattling the gridwork and spattering Dean’s face with sea-spray. He cursed and wiped saltwater from his eyes when the tower suddenly screeched, metal groaning behind Dean’s back.

Dean whipped around and saw Sam trip. The stair under Sam’s feet had given way, one corner snapping loose and Sam threw himself against the railing, clutching the handhold for support. The railing, not able to support his weight, bulged. One bar popped its bolts and the left end of the railing whipped free of its anchoring, swinging out into the open. Sam lost his balance, his legs caved and the unmoored handrail dragged him out over the side of the tower. Rahab’s spear slipped from Sam’s hand and disappeared over the side.

Dean lunged up the stairs before he could think and snatched the front of Sam’s jacket. Sam grabbed his arm and Dean pulled, throwing his weight against gravity. He managed to yank Sam back from the drop just before his own feet slipped on the oily stairs and he fell back onto the platform, Sam landing half on top of him.

Dean dug his hand into the collar of Sam’s jacket as he watched the stair Sam had stood on dip and drop off. He heard it all the way down, clanking against the cross-bracings until it hit the ground.

Sam pushed up on his elbow and craned his head, face white and startled as he stared at the fresh gap in the staircase. Blood pounding in his ears, Dean squeezed the nape of Sam’s neck.

“It’s okay, Sammy, I’ve got you.”

He twisted around until he caught sight of Cas farther along on the platform, his face turned their way and his hand closed in a white-knuckled grip around the handrail.

“It’s okay,” Dean repeated but before his mind’s eye he still saw Sam going over the side and tumbling into the dark.

 

: : :

 

They made it to the bottom of the tower and Dean wanted to kiss the solid rock Columbus-style. Not that the view down here was any friendlier than it had been on top of the tower.

The island was tiny, offering up just enough space for the lighthouse to stand on. Slabs of dark rock plunged into the sea at a steep angle and Dean imagined the waves flooding the island if the wind grew worse. He looked around, searching for another stairway, a trapdoor into the core of the islet maybe when he noticed Sam and Cas at the edge of the rock. By the time Dean joined them, Sam crouched down and pulled a rope from the water. With one end knotted around a rusty iron ring, the rope looked like it had tied a boat to the shore once. It didn’t tie anything at the moment, though: the sea-end of the rope had been snapped off and frayed.

No boat. No way to get across the sea except...

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean yelled over the roar of the waves.

“I think we have to swim,” Sam called back. Dean just shook his head and took a step back for good measure. From the ground, the waves out in the open sea seemed even bigger, heaping and heaving on top of each other with a sound like rolling thunder.

They wouldn’t last five minutes in that weather.

Sam didn’t look happy about their choices and neither did Cas but they still seemed to scan the cliffs for a good spot to walk in.

“It must be possible to cross,” Cas shouted. “It’s one of the rules.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean shouted back as one of the breakers flung a spray of white foam into the air. He stared across the sea but couldn’t even see the other shore. If there was one. They would be insane to go out there.

What did Dean expect, though? That he’d ride into the devil’s frontyard on an escalator?

“Dean, we have to,” Sam urged. He flipped up his collar and held it closed. “I can feel it now, man. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that got to Dean. That, and the sure knowledge that they had lost their chance to go back seven circles ago.

Clenching his jaw, Dean clambered down the rocks until the water sloshed over his boots. Sam held out his hand and helped Dean down to stand between him and Cas, the torn anchor line bobbing uselessly around their ankles.

“You stay in my sight,” Dean said. “Both of you. _You stay in my sight_.”

Cas nodded and waded into the surf, side by side with Sam. Dean followed, thought about the rain of the third circle, the pool of the sixth and wondered why Hell was so dead-set on drowning him.

 

: : :

 

They survived the first five minutes but Dean had serious doubts whether they’d make it to fifteen. The wind was against them and waves kept smashing into Dean’s face, pushing him the wrong way. It took all Dean’s strength to keep his head above water.

The lighthouse beam stroked the crest of the waves like a finger and showed Sam up ahead and Cas to the left. Dean crawled after Sam with his muscles burning and his clothes weighing a ton.

“Fuck this,” Dean gasped and treaded water to get rid of his jacket. He was about to toe off his boots when the beam swung back and glanced off a wave tall as a house.

Dean froze, transfixed by the wall of water arching their way. He thought he heard Sam call out his name just before the wave crashed over them and mowed Dean under, flipping him heels over head. Dean struggled back to the surface, coming up for air only to be whacked by another, smaller wave. Salt-water burned in his eyes and nose and he spluttered, tried to put his back against the next wave. His heart was beating up a storm inside his chest.

The lighthouse-beam swept over him and Dean turned frantically, searched the valley between waves until he caught sight of Sam bobbing in the water like a cork. His eyes met Dean’s but Dean twisted around, his gaze flying over the empty sea around him. He kept expecting to see a flash of Cas’ trench-coat but didn’t.

The ocean bore Dean up and down, the lighthouse-beam passed and still no sign of Cas. The sea could have swallowed him up whole for all Dean knew.

Panic clawing its way up his chest, Dean crawled toward the spot he’d seen Cas last. Sam called for him, his voice cutting through the wind, but Dean didn’t listen, his eyes fixed on the water, the steep slope of the waves.

 _You’re going to lose Cas_.

No, Dean thought. He couldn’t. He pushed through another wave, got hit by a face-full of water and spit, opened his eyes wide again. The wind and ocean seemed to roar inside him now, blowing him empty of everything except his fear for Cas. He swallowed, opened his mouth but no sound made it up his salt-dry throat.

He couldn’t lose Cas.

The next wave bore Dean down and under, rolling him like a piece of driftwood. He came back up but had barely breathed when the surge razed over him and the undertow sucked him even deeper than before. He tried to reach the surface but didn’t know where up was anymore, the water roiling in a grey rush all around him and his limbs losing against the pull of the ocean. Suddenly he saw the lighthouse beam, way too far above him. Dean kicked his legs and pushed toward the light but the waves kept coming and towed him under. The next second, the light was gone and the water curled tight around Dean, dragging him into the deep.

  
**x  
In-Between**

 

In the dark, Dean lost track of time and direction. He sank until he didn’t, reached the bottom and rested on his back. Water pinged from a tap somewhere to Dean’s left and when he opened his eyes, a light the size of a pinprick swam into view. Feeling a wet floor under his palms, Dean sat up and pushed to his feet. The glow brightened like a spotlight on a stage, illuminating the upstairs bathroom of the Camden sanctuary.

Moving to the edge of the limelight, Dean looked at himself lying in the bathtub and Cas sitting on the chair at its head. The scene was not quite how he remembered.

Cas still had a book on his knee, but he’d taken off his shoes, coat and jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He was reading but he also leaned against the bathtub and had one arm slung over Dean’s shoulder, his hand resting easily on Dean’s chest. Dean stroked his thumb along Cas’ wrist and said something that made Cas laugh. He tugged at Cas’ arm in an obvious attempt to get Cas’ hand into the water. Cas pretended he didn’t catch the clue, kept his eyes fixed on the book but Dean could see his mouth curl at the corner.

Watching them, Dean felt something hot and painful draw tight inside his chest. Imagining Cas putting a hand on his crotch was one thing, but he’d always been careful not to think beyond that. Wanting Cas in a physical way he could deal with (even without involving Cas apparently) but the twosomeness implied here? The comfort and peace he felt simply looking at him and Cas this way? He couldn’t want that.

Dean tugged absently at the hem of his shirt and reminded himself he had good reasons to keep his distance. Because Sam had it right, he would lose Cas. Hell or Heaven, Cas was a soldier and he’d die as one, Dean had never had any illusions about that. If Dean had doubts he needed only remember that Cas had already been killed twice, not to mention the time he’d been brainwashed or the year he’d been off fighting a war with his brothers.

It baffled Dean every time Cas returned but he knew better than to hope Cas’d be the one to stay. He’d played it safe, maintaining their friendship was no big deal, preparing for the day he’d have to give Cas up.

He’d never asked if Cas wanted him that way. Now he might have missed his chance.

Dean looked at Cas’ open collar, his mussed-up hair and couldn’t help regretting all the times he’d looked away instead of reaching out. On any night Cas had sacked out on Bobby’s couch it would’ve been easy to pull up Cas’ shirt and kiss the small of his back just to find out how he tasted there.

Months of deflection, of making jokes or knocking back his beer when he got too hot under the collar. It all seemed like a giant waste now.

Dean watched himself push his hand into the bathwater and between his legs and he knew he’d do that to find out how long Cas could fake indifference. How much it would take to mess up Cas’ self-control. Going from the way Cas’ chest hitched, it wouldn’t take much. He could hear Cas say his name, a soft exhale that sounded like a moan.

Dean.

Watching the book drop from Cas’ knee, Dean took a step forward but the light retreated from his foot, making it impossible for him to walk into the scene. Cas, the bathtub, the possibility of them remained out of reach.

He’d been a fool. Did he really think that keeping Cas at arms-length would lessen the blow of his disappearance? Hell wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about his chickenshit strategy when it swallowed Cas whole. All he’d done was squander what little time they might have had together.

Over in the tub, the man who could’ve been him lifted Cas’ hand, then kissed Cas’ palm before he sucked the tip of Cas’ index finger into his mouth.

Dean closed his eyes and heard the rush of waves swelling in his head, racing over the floor of his mind. He felt the ground rock under his feet and the water rising up over his waist, carrying him off again.

 

  
**8  
The Walls of Pandemonium**   


  
_(Session recorded and transcribed Nov 12, 1983, Augusta, Maine)_   


  
_SL: Why do you believe it was hell?  
MM: (silence)  
SL: Can you describe what you saw?  
MM: A lake. A mansion.  
SL: You mean a house by a lake? Was that the burning lake?  
MM: No.  
SL: Look, I really want to believe you but you have got to help me out here. If you’ve been to hell you must’ve seen some extraordinary sights.  
MM: Hell is hunger.  
SL: Hell is hunger?  
MM: Its threshold is Precipice. The bed therein is Care, the table is Hunger, the hanging of the chamber is Burning Anguish. Its threshold is Precipice. The bed therein is Care, the table is Hunger…_  
—from the case files of Dr. Steve Levinson, Riverview Psychiatric Center

_____________________________________________________

The tide washed Dean ashore. Waking up, he felt the water retreat from his legs and listened to the storm fade into silence. Under his hands, Dean felt something soft and hairy, like fur. Frowning, Dean opened his eyes and found himself lying on a red carpet.

Curling his hand, Dean let the sleek fibers run through his fingers. Definitely a carpet. He might not be blessed with an overabundance of imagination but he’d expected a beach.

Pushing up with both hands, Dean carefully got to his feet. His back and ribs ached liked he’d bumped down a stair but he barely felt it. For once the change of scene rattled him too much. He turned a full circle and concluded that the devil’s sea had carried him into an opera house. Or hey, he thought, feeling nervous and stunned, maybe he’d come out on the party deck of the Titanic. Dean stood in a hall the size of a ballroom, complete with marble pillars and domed ceiling. The deep red carpet covered every inch of the floor as well as the grand master staircase. Candelabras flanked each pillar and held up a multitude of burning candles.

 _Dean needed only a second to decide he didn’t like the place. The red carpet and candles reminded him of _Dracula_ and he half expected to see Gary Oldman crawling down the wainscoted walls._

Shivering, Dean rubbed his arms. The transition from one circle to the next had once more dry-cleaned his clothes but his jacket stayed gone. Dean remembered shrugging it off and the floor seemed to sway under his feet, recalling the heaving sea. Dean flashed back to the huge wave that had barreled him under. Him, and everyone else.

Sam, he thought. Cas.

Dean’s breath stopped, his lungs clutching and he had to clench his fists to rein in the panic. Gaze snapping up to the staircase, Dean was about to call out when someone grabbed him from behind and pressed a hand over his mouth. Dean went rigid, hunched his shoulders to fight off the assault until Sam breathed a soft, “Shhh,” against his ear. Dean nodded and Sam let go of him only to tug him into the shadows at the back of the hall. Cas waited behind a pillar and at the sight of him, Dean felt such a rush of relief it made him dizzy. Sam was whispering but Dean didn’t hear a word until Sam tapped his elbow. “You okay?” Sam murmured.

“Yeah,” Dean said and stared at his feet until he got his head under control. “Yeah. You?”

“All good,” Sam whispered.

“Cas?” Dean asked. Cas nodded, but the tight set of his jaw told another story. Dean had a feeling something was up, but before he could find out Sam got restless. He peered across the hall and shifted from foot to foot like the white rabbit on its way to the Red Queen.

“We need to move,” he urged.

“No kidding,” Dean whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

This time, Cas answered and his reply explained the worry on his face. “Because we’re not alone.”

 

: : :

 

They sneaked across the hall and now Dean noticed the noises: Faint footsteps and cutlery clinking farther inside the house. When he passed a huge double door, Dean smelled a whiff of roasted food. People chattered and laughed in the next room and quite a crowd of them by the sound of it. Sam frowned and hurried around two corners until they found another, smaller door behind a curtain.

“In there?” Dean whispered and Sam nodded. Dean still heard voices and it made him look back up the hallway to check if anyone walked there. A woman shrieked with laughter just behind the wall.

“Are you sure?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

Dean shot a look at Cas who had his hand on his open collar. “You still got the amulets?” Cas asked.

Dean reached into his own shirt and frowned when he caught Sam fumbling with the zipper of his jacket. “Yeah,” Dean said, fingering the chapped metal of the charm. “Sam, are you okay?”

“Yes,” Sam said at once but Dean saw his lip tremble ever so slightly.

“Dude, you’re shaking!” Before Sam could protest, Dean reached out and touched Sam’s cheek. His skin was ice-cold. “What the hell?” Dean muttered.

“It’s his soul,” Cas supplied.

“What?”

“The agony of his soul,” Cas explained, his voice even rougher than usual. “Sam feels it. We’re getting closer to the cage.”

Sam tried to turn away from Dean’s scrutiny, but the candle-light caught him across the face and showed the tendons standing out on his neck and the strain-lines around his eyes. He looked fucking miserable.

“Guys, please,” Sam whispered. “I don’t know how long we can stay here.”

“Okay,” Dean said and cleared his throat. “Okay. Any idea what we’ll meet in there?

“Demons,” Sam and Cas answered as one.

“Naturally,” Dean gritted. “So, what, will the amulets still work on close distance?”

“They should,” Cas said.

Well, that was comforting.

 

: : :

 

Sam opened the door and they eased into the room one by one. They came out in a banquet hall, large enough to hold a couple hundred of people. Fortunately the current crowd didn’t count quite as many. The sheer presence of the demons was enough to send a chill down Dean’s back though. He stood with one hand on the doorknob, convinced they’d be detected the second they moved.

Tables had been put up in the center of the room, thankfully far away from the walls. Dean could see the people on the chairs and the food heaped on the tables but not the details. From the stench that choked the room, the menu had to be meat and for the first time in his life Dean wanted to gag over the smell of meat-juice and cooked fat. The demons talked and roared at the top of their voices, plates smashed on the floor and high laughter shrilled up to the ceiling, setting Dean’s teeth on edge. None of the demons stood up and pointed at the intruders, though, not even when Sam set out along the wall.

Dean swallowed and let go of the door, feeling like a moving target as he followed Sam across the room. Sam walked with his fists clenched and his eyes fixed on the exit at the far side of the hall. Dean followed Sam’s example but when he heard a sob of pain he couldn’t help another look at the demon formal. For god’s sake, what were they eating?

One of the demons tore off what Dean hoped was a piece of chicken breast, the bracelets on her wrist glistening in the candle-light. They all wore jewelry, thick rows of pearls around the women’s throats and fat rings on the men’s hands. The crowd looked like a grotesque version of a prom group shot, all flashy dresses and tuxes in bright blue and yellow colors. One of the women even wore elbow-long gloves. Like the others, she ate with her fingers and Dean imagined the smears of fat the roast would leave on the white satin.

Looking away, Dean clenched his hand around the amulet and felt the edge of the charm bite into his palm. His very own invisibility cloak. Dean prayed to every benign force he didn’t believe in and it worked, the magic held. Right until Cas knocked over a candle stand.

They’d made it about halfway when Cas stumbled. Dean whirled around the second he heard Cas’ surprised gasp and saw him make a grab for the iron stand but too late. The candles crashed to the floor and the stand banged on the marble slates. Cas overbalanced and would have gone down if Dean hadn’t caught him.

“Cas?” Dean blurted then clamped his mouth shut, eyes snapping to the demons. They hadn’t heard it seemed; the party went on loud as ever. Dean felt the sweat trickle down his back and shot a glance at his brother. Sam looked like he wanted to come back for them but Dean shook his head. They needed to get to out of here.

“Can you walk?” Dean whispered and Cas nodded, pulled himself upright with a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looked back to the table and his stomach fell.

One demon, a woman, stood upright and looked right at them. Between her slurping and grabbing neighbors she held herself completely still, reminding Dean of a cheetah preparing for the killer run. Her eyes weren’t black; they flickered and shone yellow like a candle flame.

“We’ve got to run,” Dean rasped and Cas’ hand clenched on Dean’s arm. “Right now.”

The laughter at the table stopped as if cut off with a knife. A chair scratched over the floor, the screech of wood on marble echoing loud in the silence.

“Cas, come on,” Dean urged and pulled Cas along. He didn’t look at the tables anymore but he could feel more and more eyes turning their way. Someone giggled and slapped a hand over their mouth. After that, the chase was on.

 

 ****

x  
Threshold

 

Sam burst through the exit, Dean and Cas bundling through at his heels. Their run had sapped whatever strength Cas had left because the minute he was over the doorstep he collapsed. He slipped from Dean’s grasp and Dean could only ease him to the floor.

“Stay down!” he called and dashed back to Sam.

Sam had slammed the door shut behind them and stood bracing it with his back but the first demon who smashed into the other side nearly knocked him off his feet. Frantic, Dean pulled out his knife and the pages from the Dante diaries, dropping sheets until he found the one he wanted.

“Hold the door, Sammy,” he said, cut his arm and started drawing lock-symbols onto the heavy wood.

“Hurry,” Sam panted, the muscles in his arms standing out as he put his shoulder and his whole weight against a horde of demons. On the far side, hands scratched and banged on the door, rattling the doorknob so hard it should have come off. Dean worked fast, putting blood-seals on all four corners of the gateway until suddenly the banging stopped. Dean clutched the diary page and waited but it seemed the sigils worked. This boundary was sealed. Pressing his handkerchief over the cuts on his arm, Dean stepped back and Sam simply slid down the door.

Dean stuffed the diary page back into his pocket and walked clean across the notes he’d dropped, back to Cas.

Pressing the heels of both hands against his blindfold, Cas lay curled up on the floor. With his stomach twisted into a tight knot, Dean dropped into a crouch beside him. He touched Cas’ shoulder and when Cas didn’t react, squeezed it hard.

“Cas?” he asked and his voice cracked on the nickname. He touched Cas’ wrist but Cas swatted his hand away and shoved at Dean’s chest, keeping him at a distance. He sat up without help but the muscles in his arms drew tight and quivered. Cas retreated against the wall, pulled up his knees and covered his eyes again.

Dean felt like someone plied his heart out of his chest with fishhooks. He knelt down in front of Cas, took both Cas’ hands and held on this time.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let me see.”

Carefully, he pulled Cas’ hands away from his face and opened the knot of the tie. When the tie came off, Dean put his hand under Cas’ chin and tilted his head up. Finding out what the blindfold had hidden, Dean wondered how Cas had remained on his feet this long.

The scar tissue that ran across Cas’ eyes looked red and sore, which would be bad enough, but it also seemed like Cas’ skin had cracked around the edges of the wound. Hair-fine fissures snaked down to his cheekbones and in some Dean could see a flicker of blue, like Cas was made of light on the inside. Most of the cracks were dead, though, and where they ended, Cas’ veins stood out dark as if someone had poured ink into his blood.

Dean lifted the fringe of Cas’ hair and traced a faint discoloration along the veins of Cas’ forehead. It spread.

Dean looked at the blue-and-purple tendrils webbing out from Cas’ destroyed eyes and pieced together what was happening. The injury had pierced Cas’ armor, just like Cas had feared. Now the fumes of Hell seeped under his skin and into his unprotected grace.

Cas grimaced and Dean let his hair slip back into place. “It’s bad isn’t it?” he asked.

“Worse than I thought,” Cas admitted and Dean bowed his head, dug his fingers into his thighs.

“Goddamn it, Cas.”

Cas pulled the tie from Dean’s grasp, pressed his lips into a tight line and actually got halfway to his feet. His legs wouldn’t hold his weight, though, and he sagged back to floor.

Dean watched on in disbelief before he clutched the front of Cas’ shirt. “You stubborn son of a bitch,” he snapped. “Can you just sit down? Please?”

Cas took a sharp breath but didn’t argue. He twisted the tie in his fingers and averted his face like he didn’t want Dean to look at him in this state.

That was it.

Cursing under his breath, Dean sat down beside Cas and slung an arm over Cas’ shoulders. Cas stiffened, but Dean pulled him close all the same, wrapping his other arm around Cas’ chest.

“Dean?” Cas sounded startled and confused, ready to run.

“Shut up,” Dean whispered. “Just shut up.”

He looked at Sam over Cas’ head and the worry on his brother’s face made him feel worse. Dean closed his eyes and tightened his embrace, holding on until Cas finally slumped against him.

 

: : :

 

Minutes ticked by but Dean didn’t care. He kept his arm around Cas, felt the weight of Cas’ head on his shoulder and Cas’ hand on his knee. Sam cowered by the door, arms folded over his midriff, shivering and exhaling white breath. He looked no more ready to move than Dean or Cas.

Dean looked at Sam and Cas and reflected that of the three of them, he was the only one without a scratch. Hell had spared him. How nice.

At the far end of the room, another door waited for them: Plain, wood, with the Roman number nine embossed on a plaque like a joke. Dean didn’t want to look at it but the door still loomed like a black hole at the edge of his vision.

“You stood out,” Cas said and the sudden sound of his voice startled Dean.

“What?”

“You wondered why I asked my superiors to let me pull you off the rack,” Cas explained. “It’s because you stood out.”

Dean had no idea how on earth he should react to that but he felt his heart pound harder and Cas must’ve felt it too.

“They told us to narrow all our attention down to you,” Cas went on quietly. “I had never focused so hard on a human soul and yours was bright and flawed and stubborn. I’ve never met stubbornness like that.”

A soul with a bad attitude, Dean thought. Sounded like him. When Cas shifted, the tips of his hair brushed against Dean’s cheek and Dean’s throat constricted tight enough to hurt.

“You said no,” Cas whispered. “All that time you said no to Alastair and I felt what it cost you. So I asked. I wanted to save you.”

“Lot of good it did you,” Dean murmured and Cas huffed out a breath.

“We had our moments.”

It was too much. Realizing Cas had cared even before Dean knew him. Knowing Cas told him now because he thought he wouldn’t get another chance-- Dean didn’t know what to do with that, any of it. He stared at the ceiling and wished with all his heart they were anywhere else.

Cas’ hand still rested lightly on his knee and Dean stretched out his other leg, pain shooting up his thigh when he used muscles stiff from walking. The room’s silence, its sense of liminality, reminded Dean of so many restrooms he’d been in, rinsing toothpaste from his mouth, watching the gray light of dawn creep over the stalls. Those mornings on the road, when he didn’t even stop at a motel for the night, Dean had often felt tired to his bones and he’d asked himself if there was a purpose, any purpose to his life. To the hunt. Those mornings, he’d felt there was nothing behind him and ahead of him but the road. Sometimes that was enough. Sometimes it seemed easier to sit down against the wall of a restroom in the middle of nowhere and just stop.

Cas had been with him one time. Dean didn’t remember where they’d been going, but he recalled Cas brushing his teeth and spitting out toothpaste with that same concentrated expression he put on when he analyzed Aramaic incantations. It must’ve been during the months when Dean and Sam had gone separate ways, because Dean remembered the hole he’d carried around in his gut. That morning, the emptiness from the place where Sam used to be had crept up on him again and he’d had half a mind to get the whiskey bottle from the Impala und screw it all. Instead, he’d bought Cas breakfast and answered his questions about the movie they’d watched the other night.

Dean didn’t know how many times they had dragged each other back from the edge like that. He had no idea how he would deal if Cas didn’t have his back anymore.

Hooking his arm around Cas’ neck, Dean turned and pressed a kiss on Cas’ head. Cas’ clutched at his leg, fingers digging into Dean’s thigh, prompting a surge of need Dean could neither explain nor prevent. He buried his face in Cas’ hair and breathed in, committing the feel and warmth of Cas to memory before he let go.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here and into healing range.”

Cas didn’t reply and when Dean untangled his arms, Cas picked up his tie and fixed it around his head again. Dean helped him with the knot, his thumb brushing along Cas’ temple.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cas answered. “Help me up please.”

 

: : :

 

Dean pulled Cas to his feet before he went to gather up the remaining diary pages. Sam didn’t get up but he held up a sheet of paper when Dean came close. As soon as Dean tucked away the pages, Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a small vial and put it in Dean’s palm.

Dean frowned, turned the glass tube between his fingers. A colorless liquid sloshed inside. “What’s that?”

“Blood of a Fury,” Sam explained. “It vaporizes souls.”

“Vaporizes...” Dean echoed and his mouth went dry.

“Like acid,” Sam confirmed, his voice hoarse and edged with pain. Dean, stuck for words, could do nothing but listen as Sam continued.

“I’ve had it for a while now,” he admitted. “When you said you were going after my soul I thought: I’ll total the stupid thing. Take it out of the game for good.”

Dean stood horrified as the whole meaning of Sam’s confession sunk in. He’d planned to destroy his soul from the get-go and Dean would have been the one who brought him within range. That was the reason why he’d agreed to come along, why he’d been so pliable and ready to help.

A trickle of sweat slid down Dean’s spine. He’d known. He’d known Sam had been up to something but how could he have foreseen this? How could he have stopped it?

Sam’s soul, vaporized. Erased out of existence. It felt like Dean’s stomach had turned to lead.  
“Don’t worry,” Sam shrugged. “It’s too late. I can’t do it.” He looked up at Dean and his face seemed strained but also soft somehow, like he was suddenly younger. He shivered and tried shut the tremors down, pulling every muscle in his body tight.

“I can feel my soul and the hole where it should be,” Sam explained, the words pouring out of him now. “There’s all these waves going through me, man, like, sorrow and fear and, god, the cold.” Sam closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his chest. The room was warm but Sam’s breath still puffed white from his lips.

“It hurts so much, you don’t...,” Sam faltered and tried again. “It’s like I've got my insides stuck in dry ice or something. 4D soul transmission.” He bowed his head and his next breath came out in a desperate laugh. “I tried to push it away,” he said. “But it’s already so tightly meshed up with me I can’t shake it off anymore.”

Dean cleared his throat. “So what,” he said. “Now you’re afraid killing your soul will hurt you too?”

“It might have even before now, I don’t know,” Sam mused. “But that’s not even it, man. I want it back. It’s like everything inside me is holding its breath or something. That soul, it belongs with me.” He laughed again, his face twisting with pain.

Dean clenched his jaw. “Is that funny to you?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam said and put his hands on the floor, ready to stand up. “Because I still think it’s fucking stupid to swallow a soul that’s been skinned alive. Guess that’s what souls make us, huh? Stupid?”

Not trusting his voice just then, Dean kept his mouth shut. When Sam rose to his feet, Dean flinched and backed away, tucking the vial against his chest. Unfazed, like he hadn’t just cut the red wire before the nuke went off, Sam moved past him and went over to Cas.

“Come on, man,” he said softly. “You lean on me and I won’t run.”

Cas put his fingertips against Sam’s chest as if he could feel the hollow places, the chambers inside Sam that waited for his soul to come home. He nodded and it seemed he understood perfectly. “All right.”

Cas leaned on Sam’s shoulder and Sam looped an arm around his back.

Dean watched them in a daze, poleaxed by Sam’s confession. He didn’t even notice that he’d stopped breathing until Sam guided Cas to the door marked nine. Once they moved, Dean forced a mouthful of air back into his lungs and carefully blanked out his mind. The vial seemed to burn in his palm and his head filled with nightmarish pictures of Sam pouring poison into his soul and dissolving both it and himself.

He dropped the vial, crushed it under his foot and followed Sam and Cas to the threshold.


	4. Chapter 4

**9  
The Abyss**

 _The devil uttered a contemptuous laugh, which hissed over the surface of the earth, and, seizing the trembling being, he tore him to pieces, as a capricious boy would tear an insect. He strewed the bloody members with fury and disgust about the field and plunged the soul into the depths of hell._  
—Friedrich Maximillian von Klinger, Faustus: His Life, Death and Descent Into Hell

_____________________________________________________

In one of Bobby’s books, Dean once saw a painting of Hell as a furnace. It showed a host of naked souls twisting and tossing in red fire, the flames reaching so high they licked at the roof of the Pit. The reality, as Dean experienced yet again, was different.

Way down in the belly of Hell, Dean stood at the edge of a frozen lake. Black rocks poked through the ice, their backs covered in hoarfrost. It snowed too: Translucent ice-crystals drifted down from above, settled on Dean’s arms and melted on his skin.

To either side, the stone walls of the cave curved up into darkness. Dean looked up at the domed ceiling, the stalactites that reached down from the shadows like teeth. He was as deep as deep went now.

Dean stepped onto the lake, tested if it would hold his weight and turned around. Sam waited next to Cas, his hand on Cas’ elbow and ready to guide him. He nodded at Dean, silently asking him to take the lead.

“Which way?” Dean asked and Sam’s gaze slipped to the ice.

“Straight ahead.”

 

: : :

 

They hadn’t gone far before they came upon the first people. Souls, Dean corrected himself, but to his eyes it made no difference. There must’ve been hundreds of them, enough to fill a football stadium. At times they were packed so tight, it was hard to move between them.

Men, women, some kids that could not have been older than fifteen: Each of them different and each of them frozen into the lake. With some, the ice clutched around their chests. Others had sunk in all the way to their shoulders. You could always see their faces, though, turned up or aside, their mouths wide and frozen in mute agony. Frost covered them like a second skin and petrified their hair. Dean did his best not to touch them.

At one point, one of the frozen soul-corpses actually moved, his fingers scrabbling weakly on the lake’s surface. He was trapped up to his arm-pits but his arms were on top of the ice and his hands fumbled for purchase.

Before anyone could stop him, Sam let go of Cas and dropped to his knees in front of the guy. He clutched the man’s arms as if he wanted to pull him out and the poor bastard’s hand got hold of Sam’s sleeve. Cas was at Sam’s side a second before Dean reached them. They both took Sam by the arms and tugged but Sam dug his heels in.

“No.”

“Come on Sammy,” Dean muttered and stroked his thumb over Sam’s shoulder.

“We can’t leave them like this,” Sam choked, his eyes fixed on the trapped man’s face. His frozen expression never changed but Dean saw the living pain in his eyes and knew all too well the despair over his endless stasis with no hope, not even of death.

“They’ve been damned a long time ago, Sam,” Cas said softly. “There’s nothing we can do.”

When they hauled Sam to his feet, the trapped man clawed at Sam’s jacket but his hand dropped soon enough, his fingers twitching.

“This place is wrong,” Sam rasped and Dean felt him shake. He turned Sam toward him, drawing his attention away from the frozen men and women around them.

“I know,” Dean agreed and held Sam’s gaze until the shivers subsided. “Come on,” he said. “We keep walking, hm?”

Sam nodded, pulled out of Dean’s grip and returned to Cas. Dean took the lead again, bypassing the half-buried bodies and staring over their heads, not wanting to know if all of them were aware.

 

: : :

 

By the time they left the field of frozen dead behind, Dean’s boots were dusted with ice and Sam’s cheeks flushed red with cold. Cas dragged his feet and had to stop every now and then, but he kept walking. Hell’s poison had long-since spread past his blindfold, blue tendrils spider-webbing down all the way to his jaw-line.

Not far ahead, the cave widened and the light intensified, a moon-pale glow glancing off a white wall in the distance. Dean was sidestepping a fringe of black stone when a demon slipped out from a crack in the cave and blocked the way. Shoulders hunched under a bulky coat, sly grin, and milk-white eyes; he looked impressive. One of Lilith’s breed most likely. The kind who’d tear your spine out without touching you.

“So at last you come,” the demon leered. “We’ve been waiting f-- ”

That was about as far as he got before Cas stepped up, slipped his sword from his sleeve and rammed it between the demon’s eyes. Turned out celestial steel killed hell-spawn just as well as angels because the bastard’s eyes exploded in a white blaze.

Hand halfway to his knife, it took Dean a second to recover. He stared at the crumbled heap of once-a-demon then turned to Cas, eye-brows raised. “Show-off.”

Cas stood panting with one hand on his hip and managed to look irritated despite the tie bandaging his gouged-out eyes.

“Macho angel,” Sam added. His teeth chattered, but he smiled anyway. Ignoring them, Cas carefully sat down on a stunted rock. If he had been more hip with sign language, Dean was sure Cas would’ve flipped them the bird.

Dean tapped the dead demon with the tip of his boot before he looked at the white wall in the distance. “So the welcome committee means...”

“We’re here,” Sam finished, swaying on his feet until Dean steadied him. It was cold down here, yes, but somehow the temperatures didn’t affect Dean as they should have. The cavern-air chilled him a little but when he pressed his hands together, he still felt his body-heat collect between them.

Sam, on the other hand, looked like he’d spent the night in a walk-in freezer. Frost crusted his brows and the skin under his eyes looked purple and bruised. His breath hung pale before his lips and from the ragged huffs Dean figured the ice wasn’t just under Sam’s feet, it filled every inch of him.

Dean wished he still had his jacket although giving it to Sam would hardly make a difference. On second thought, though.

Going down on one knee beside the dead demon, Dean pulled off the sentry’s coat and threw it to Sam. The fact that Sam put on the coat without arguing told Dean a thing or two. He waited until Sam had the coat buttoned, then took Sam’s hands in both of his and rubbed them.

Sam’s shoulders sagged with relief but when he spoke he sounded doubtful. “Shouldn’t we get a move on?”

“We got time,” Dean insisted. Time to gather the weapons they didn’t bring, tap the resources they didn’t have, and follow up on the plan they never thought through. Yeah, plenty of time.

Biting his lip, Dean folded his hands over Sam’s ridiculously big paws like he’d done when they were kids. Some winter days, they had to squat in houses without heating and Dean had to come up with ways to keep Sam warm, putting his old hoodie on him and wrapping him up in a sleeping bag.

Maybe Sam remembered that time too, because he curled his hands in the cavern of Dean’s palms the way he used to do when his head had reached no higher than Dean’s shoulder.

“And there I thought you didn’t give a damn,” Sam joked with a hoarse voice.

“Shut up,” Dean muttered.

Sam looked at him sharply but Dean didn’t meet his eyes. After he’d saved Sam from falling off that sea-tower, Dean had given up on differentiating between Sam with a soul and Sam without a soul. This man was as much his brother as the one who jumped into Hell. He had no idea how he would protect either part of Sam, the man freezing on this side of the cage or the soul being tortured within. He only hoped he was still stubborn enough to try.

When Dean felt at least a little warmth return to Sam’s hands, he let go and pulled the cuffs of the demon coat over Sam’s knuckles.

“Thank you,” Sam said and flipped up the collar, pulling the big black coat around him like a shell.

Dean nodded, his gaze slipping back to the distant, pale wall before he walked over to Cas. He put his hand on Cas’ shoulder while Sam moved around to Cas’ left side.

“I don’t think I can walk anymore,” Cas admitted. “You go on. I’ll follow when I can.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean snorted and with Sam’s help stood Cas on his feet.

 

: : :

 

It was like a bad joke, Dean decided. A headcase, a soulless dude, and a blind angel walk into Hell. He was past the point where it made him nervous, though.

They crossed the ice side by side, Sam supporting Cas until Cas untangled himself and insisted he could walk the last stretch unaided. Dean bit his tongue but he couldn’t believe that Cas thought his soul was stubborn.

Dean had told Cas once to never change, and, yeah, it seemed he never did. Dean smiled.

Feeling the lake creak under his feet, Dean remembered a night three years ago, with the apocalypse hovering over their heads and Cas two thirds on his way to mortality. That night, Dean, Sam and Cas had been squatting in an empty house with a bottle of Jack and a Tequila back-up. They had painted angel stick-figures on the walls and were chugging darts at Zachariah’s potbelly because, yeah, they were that drunk.

Sam had stretched out on his stomach with his jacket bunched up under his chin. He’d watched with glassy eyes when Cas took aim for one of Lucifer’s horns and missed it by at least ten inches.

“Dude,” Sam laughed. “You need to lay off the whiskey.”

“I’m not drunk,” Cas insisted, forming the words just a bit more carefully than usual.

Dean had given him a lazy smile. “Then you’re a piss-poor shot.”

Dean remembered sprawling on his bedroll and Cas sitting next to him in his black tax-accountant suit. While Sam dozed off, Cas had combed his fingers through Dean’s hair, his touch light and careful. The room had spun slowly around him but Dean hadn’t felt that calm in ages.

A good memory, Dean decided. He held on to it for a little while longer, tucking it away when they crossed the line of dead demons.

Unlike the frozen souls, the demons were well and truly smoked, their eyes burned from their skulls. Cas hadn’t killed them, they’d been dead a while. It looked like they had tried to make for the white wall but something stopped them, maybe some invisible laser web that toasted demons on the spot. Whatever it was, it didn’t stop Dean, Sam or Cas.

As they came closer, Dean saw that the white wall grew from the ice, in fact, it looked like the lake bent at a ninety degree angle and ran straight up to the ceiling.

The cage. Had to be.

It didn’t surprise Dean that the devil’s prison was made of ice. After all, Lucifer had told him the cold was his element and ice could burn just as painfully as fire.

They made it within a few feet of the wall before Sam collapsed. Cas caught him and staggered under Sam’s weight until Dean braced an arm across Sam’s chest. Together, they eased Sam down onto the lake. By the time Sam curled up on the ice, he was shivering badly.

Cas knelt down at Sam’s side, felt for his face and wiped the ice from his brows. Dean ran his hands up and down Sam’s arm but even the demon’s thick wool coat felt clammy and cold now. Sam strained to look at the white wall, then groaned and pulled his knees against his chest. Clutching Sam’s shoulder, Dean stared at the wall. So damn close.

He turned back to Sam and put a hand against his cheek.

“Go,” Cas said. “I’ll watch over him.”

Dean tugged at the collar of Sam’s coat, taking in the agonized frown of Sam’s face. Every fiber in his body screamed at Dean to help, but what could he do? His gaze slipped back to the cage. Dean hated to leave Sam and Cas but he knew he had to end this if he could.

Sam shot him a look, his eyes narrowed and fierce. “Just get it out,” he gritted. “Get it out.”

Dean nodded.

When he moved to get up, Cas fumbled for his wrist. “Don’t let them trick you,” Cas said.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean mumbled and got to his feet.

 

: : :

 

The barrier reached from one side of the cave to the other, allowing no gaps or crevices. Up close, it looked like a curtain made of glass, translucent but blemished, rippling where the layers of ice had fused together. Dean put his fingertips against the wall, expecting a hard, smooth surface. Instead his fingers slipped right into the barrier, passing into the ice like a spoon into pudding. A polar-cold pudding that shot needles of pain into his skin.

Dean hissed and snatched back his hand, holding it up to his face. His fingers had turned deadly white but when he flexed them, the blood rushed back into them. He was still clenching his fist when he saw someone approach the wall from the other side.

The ice blurred the man’s shape but the closer he came, the easier it became to make out the details. Washed-out jeans, a green army surplus jacket and a blond, tousled head. When he stopped on the far side of the wall, there was no way of mistaking the man’s face.

Dean clenched his jaw and met Adam’s gaze through the ice. Hell might be chilling Sam to the bone, but it had frozen Adam solid. His skin was white as snow, his lips blue and his hair crusted with rime.

Watching him, Dean felt a stab sorrow. His dad had tried to keep Adam from the life but his heritage had run him over anyway. Good chance the kid never knew what hit him. He’d been training to become a doctor. Couple of years he would’ve taken his own son to a White Sox game. Adam didn’t deserve this.

“Hello, brother,” Adam said and his voice sounded clear like the barrier between them didn’t exist.

“Adam,” Dean said. “We thought you were-- ”

“Dead?” Adam smiled. “I wish.”

He cocked his head and Dean caught a flicker in his eyes, a pale gleam in place of his pupils.

If possible, Dean’s blood ran even colder. “You’re not Adam.”

On the far side of the wall, Michael’s smile widened. “Not really. He’s in here though,” he added and touched his hands to his chest. “Right where you left him. All this time we had each other for company.”

The words had barely left Michael’s mouth before his shadow flared up behind him, blew up large enough to brush the ceiling and smashed into the ice wall hard enough to make it shudder. Dean jumped back, tiny chips of ice raining down at his boot-tips.

“Oh yes,” Michael said. “And him, of course.”

As Dean watched, the shadow contracted, took on the vague shape of a man and skittered along the wall before it retreated into a corner.

Lucifer knew how to throw a tantrum even without the use of a body.

Michael shrugged and peered past Dean’s shoulder. “I see you brought your own brother,” he said before he raised his brow. “And who’s that with him?”

Dean didn’t answer but Michael didn’t need him to anyway. “Castiel,” he called. “Is that you? What a resilient creature you are. Why don’t you come closer? I want to pay my respects.”

Dean looked back in spite of himself. Cas had spread his trenchcoat over Sam and cradled Sam’s head on his lap. When Michael called him, Cas turned toward his voice and showed that he knew how to use his middle-finger after all.

In the folds and ripples of the ice-wall, Michael’s face looked ugly for a moment. Lucifer appeared to the left again, crouching for a leap but Michael held up his hand. When he looked at Dean, his expression was smooth and calm again.

“I take it you came here for this?” he asked and held up his hand. A light flickered just above his palm.

Dean’s heart jumped clean up into his throat. He’d seen human souls before: When they’d hunted down Famine, he and Sam had freed one from a suitcase. That soul had shone like a Christmas tree, bright enough to make Dean’s eyes hurt. The soul Michael held in his palm looked like the spark on the tip of a dying candle.

 _Sam_ , Dean thought.

“Dean, Dean,” Michael scolded. “You’re so predictable.”

“What do you mean?” Dean husked, the words rasping up his throat. _Don’t let them trick you_ , Cas’ warning echoed in his head.

“I knew you would come,” Michael confided. “After all, it was I who sent Sam up the stairs. Minus one small part.” He closed his fist over Sam’s soul and it was all Dean could do not to throw himself into the wall there and then. Instead he tried to keep his face as neutral as possible.

The return of Michael’s smile told him he didn’t succeed.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Michael said. “Sam there was the perfect carrot for your stick. I knew you’d retrace his footsteps once you figured out his soul was missing. Although it took you a bit longer than I thought.” Michael laughed. “What, no come-back?”

Dean clenched his fists, feeling the muscles bunch up in his arms and shoulders. Michael’s smugness stoked his hate for Heaven’s establishment. Manipulative, self-righteous sons of bitches, the lot of them. No wonder Zachariah had idolized Michael. _Two douches in a pod_ , Dean thought and remembered how it had gone with Zach in the end.

The memory of ramming a sword into Zachariah’s braincase helped Dean keep his temper.

“I think you’re full of crap,” he said and watched Michael flinch. That reaction was gold so Dean smiled back at Michael, making his grin as cocky as he knew how. “You don’t have the juice to free anyone,” he taunted. “You’re just a rat in a cage.”

This time when Lucifer whammed into the wall, Dean stood his ground, ignoring the chunk of ice that dropped from the heights and burst on the ground an arm-length from where Dean stood. As the devil retreated, Michael narrowed his eyes at Dean.

“You think you’re clever,” he stated. “Well. If I’m so harmless, why don’t you reach into our prison and pluck out your brother’s soul? You’ve figured out that you can, from your side, right?” He opened his hand, showing the feeble light of Sam’s soul and holding it close to the wall. “Go on,” Michael urged. “What’s stopping you?”

Dean clenched his hands at his sides. He wanted to grab that soul from Michael’s clutches and land a punch besides but he was afraid, too. So far, the cage’s wall protected him from the archangel but if he reached beyond the barrier he’d lose the one advantage he had.

Michael of course read him like a book.

“Ah,” Michael said and curled his fingers over Sam’s soul again. “I guess this is stalemate, then.”

“You knew how this would go,” Dean said and the moment the words left his mouth, he knew it was true. Michael might not have orchestrated Dean’s arrival in Hell like he claimed but he liked seeing Dean there and he did want him for something. There was no mistaking the eagerness in Adam’s eyes. Dean took a step closer, feeling the cold radiate from the frozen wall. “You know I won’t leave without Sam’s soul and you know I’ll play. Stop shuffling and deal.”

“Tsk.” Michael clucked his tongue. “I’m not a demon, Dean. I don’t make deals. I’ll offer you a wager, though.”

 _A rose by any other name_ , Dean thought but bit his tongue.

“I’ll give you one chance to retrieve your brother’s soul,” Michael explained. “If you can do it, the soul is yours to keep. If not, Lucifer and I walk free.”

“Right,” Dean said. “You’ll let me reach in there and Lucy rips off my arm.”

“Oh no,” Michael assured him. “None of that. We’ll play fair.”

“Right,” Dean repeated. He wanted to check with Cas again, see if he followed the exchange and maybe get a sign how to proceed. Michael would see that as weakness though and he wouldn’t even be wrong. Don’t let them trick you, Dean heard again and breathed out slowly.

He had to outmaneuver Michael somehow. Agree to his terms then turn the game to his advantage.

Piece of cake.

“All right, I’m game,” Dean said. “How do you want to play this?”

“Let me show you.” Once more, Michael extended his open hand to the wall and this time, Sam’s soul slipped from his fingertips and attached itself to the ice. It clung there like a spot of sunlight on a window.

“Go on,” Michael said and backed off. “Take him.”

Dean hesitated. “Just like that?”

Michael looked to his side. “Well, not quite.”

If Dean had grabbed the soul right away it might have worked. But in the second he took to decide, Lucifer rushed into the wall and his shadow form smashed into Sam’s soul, swallowing it whole.

Back on the lake, Sam gasped in pain and Dean yelled, “No!”

His hands flew up and the only thing that stopped him from plunging his fist into the devil’s black shape was Cas calling out his name. “Dean, no!”

Dean froze, his fingertips inches from the barrier. Heart beating at the base of his throat, he watched Lucifer roil along the ice like a thundercloud, then suddenly the shadow withdrew, clearing up like mist in the morning. In its place, it left two bright and identical lights, shimmering and refracting in the thick ice.

Dean drew back his hand, feeling his stomach drop as he realized what was expected of him.

“I guess this is redundant,” Michael said idly. “But pick one. Just be sure it’s not my brother you pour into Sam’s bones.”

 

: : :

 

 _Games_ , Dean thought. Angels and their fucking games. No wonder Gabriel had become a trickster.

Scrubbing a hand over his chin, Dean paced back and forth along the wall before he stopped in front of the trapped lights again. How the hell should he figure out who was who?

“You don’t seem so confident now,” Michael mused. “If you’re not sure, we can always come to another agreement. Set me free and I’ll bring your brother’s soul with me. No risk, no guessing games, it’ll be as easy as—”

Dean stuck his hand into the barrier before Michael could finish.

It hurt just as much as it had the first time, the dead cold racing up into his arm and numbing his muscles. He set his teeth against the pain and pushed his hand deeper until his fingertips brushed the first of the twin-lights. The second the light grazed his skin, Dean felt a wave of love and welcome wash through him. The sensation of being hugged by a dozen arms was so overwhelming, Dean almost jerked back.

 _Sammy?_ he thought and heard an answering voice in his head.

 _Dean. Finally_.

It was Sam’s voice but the strength of his embrace made Dean uneasy. Even when he was little, Sam had never clutched him like that. It could be Hell, though. After a year in the cage, who wouldn’t seize on the first helping hand?

Frowning, Dean pulled free off the invisible hands pawing on the sleeve of his Henley. He paused, then reached for the second light, dipping his fingertips into the glow.

Compared to the first soul-rush, the stimulus was almost lackluster, like the tired touch of a hand or a weary smile.

 _Told you to leave me here_.

 _Like I would listen to you_ , Dean thought and felt something curl around his heart, a whisper of exasperation skitter up along his arms. That would be Sam, rolling his eyes at him.

Could it be that easy?

Dean shot a look at Michael but his face remained passive and gave nothing away. Dean closed his hand and felt the soul pulse in the hollow of his palm. Carefully, Dean drew back his hand, the ice scraping along his wrist. When he pulled his fist free, a fine film of rime covered his knuckles but it already began to melt. Between his fingers, Dean could see the soul shimmer like sunlit water.

“Are you sure?” Michael said and there was something so smug in his tone, it made Dean’s gaze snap up at him. The son of a bitch was smiling again.

Dean cradled his fist against his chest and stepped away from the wall. Was he sure? If Michael’s face was any indication, Dean had played directly into his hands. Or it might a bluff.

Folding both hands protectively over the soul he carried, Dean turned around and walked back to Sam and Cas. Sam still cowered on the ground with his head cushioned on Cas’ thighs. When Dean reached them, Cas whispered something into Sam’s ear and squeezed his shoulder.

Dean knelt down beside them, the soul nestled in his palms. He’d hoped Sam would recognize it but Sam was beyond seeing anything. His whole body was shaking like dead leaves on a tree, his eyes were squeezed shut and white ice limned his lashes. Dean bit his lip, trying to feel something from the soul, some tiny signal that would tell him he’d made the right choice. If he inserted that light, would he plant the devil in his brother’s chest?

The soul remained mute though and Dean could only rely on that one second of certainty when he’d first touched it.

He brought his hands up to Sam’s face and as soon as the soul was close, Sam opened his mouth and breathed in the light. Once the soul had passed his lips, Sam gasped for air and cringed, his eyes flying open and flaring white before they dropped shut again. After, all tension seemed to ease from his body, the trembling stopped and Sam let out a sigh that hung pale before his mouth.

Dean knelt on the lake with his hands fisted into Sam’s coat. He was praying, to whom he didn’t know, a litany of _please, please, please_.

“Sam?” he croaked.

Sam shifted, turned his head and this time when he opened his eyes, they were just brown, regular eyes. No unearthly glimmer in them or anything.

“Dean?” he asked and Dean clenched his fist so hard he could feel the bite of his nails through the folds of the coat.

“Yeah?”

Sam smiled. “Thanks for not listening.”

“Jackass,” Dean breathed out shakily and bowed his head, the relief so strong he almost laughed.

“Sam,” Cas said, as if he too had to make sure.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam answered and patted Cas’ knee. Dean looked up in time to see Cas’ shoulders drop with relief. They were complete again. Dean stroked back the fringe of Sam’s floppy hair and didn’t care one bit if it made him a soppy bastard.

Thunder built behind them and Lucifer surged into the wall of the cage, the echo of his roar rolling over the lake. Dean felt the lake quake under his knees.

“You beat the devil,” Michael called to them when the tremors calmed. “I’m impressed.”

I beat you, Dean thought. He didn’t doubt for a second that Michael had believed Dean would make the wrong choice. He’d trusted in Lucifer’s ability to masquerade and lie, talents that suited spotless Michael just fine when he needed them. Only neither of them understood what made humans, or family, tick.

Too bad.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean muttered.

When Dean didn’t rise to the bait, Michael changed his tactic. “I can see why you threw in your bet with them, Castiel,” he called and Cas tensed up.

“Men’s courage is beautiful to behold,” Michael prattled on. “They are our father’s precious creations. You and I, we never disagreed on that.”

Cas took a breath and shouted something Enochian back at Michael. Whatever it was, Dean had a notion it was a good deal juicier than Go fuck yourself. If Cas had dropped a match into an oil barrel, the effect would have been just as drastic.

Behind his wall, Michael went ballistic, bellowing at Cas that he did not dare leave him here, he was still his commander. “You filthy craven traitor,” he fumed. “I’ll tear off your wings and nail them to the gate of Heaven.”

He went on raving and Cas went back to ignoring him. In the meantime, Dean helped Sam sit up and Sam brushed the ice from his hair. When Dean put a hand to Sam’s cheek, he thought it felt a little warmer than before. At their backs, Michael was still flinging curses like it was going out of style.

“How is your campaign going, Castiel?” he yelled. “Are you winning? I didn’t think so. You’re a foot soldier. A nobody.”

“Great family reunion, huh?” Dean asked Cas and Cas shrugged.

“I’ve never been that fond of him.”

“Can’t blame you,” Sam said and shuddered. “He’s a douche.”

Dean patted Sam on the shoulder but Sam caught his hand.

“Adam,” Sam rasped.

Dean nodded and looked back at the cage. “I know.”

Michael stood up close to the wall, running both hands over the barrier. It must have driven him batshit that Dean could reach through the bars and he could not. It made Dean wonder. Michael had come to Hell with a Napoleon complex. What if imprisonment had kicked loose the last ropes that tethered him to sanity?

A crazy archangel. The thought was not as satisfying as it could’ve been.

“Release me and I’ll take care of the mess you made,” Michael promised. “I’ll even tell Raphael to stand down. You’ll fail without me!”

At this, Cas lifted his head and turned to Michael once more. He didn’t say anything but Michael must’ve picked up some message nonetheless. Even from where he was kneeling, Dean could see his eyes widen. Then Michael started screaming in earnest, booming out curses Dean didn’t catch because Michael had slipped into Enochian and his voice thundered at a decibel that was not even remotely human.

He was still wearing Adam though.

Dean was up and heading back to the cage before the insanity of his decision caught up with him. At his approach, Michael stopped shouting but he stared at Dean with an intensity that made Dean’s skin crawl. “Let me out,” Michael gritted, Adam’s eyes burning with the archangel’s grace. Way in the back, Dean saw Lucifer prowling restlessly up and down.

“So you and Old Nick can waltz all over God’s green earth?” Dean said. “Not a chance.”

“Forget about my idiot brother and the goddamn apocalypse,” Michael spat and made Dean quirk a brow. “Let me out before he,” he stabbed a finger in Cas’ direction, “blows it.”

Dean shrugged. “From where I’m standing, Cas is doing a way better job than you.” He kept his voice calm but his heart beat a mile a minute. Michael was so wrapped up in ripping Dean a new one, he didn’t pay attention to Lucifer anymore. He didn’t notice when Lucifer froze at the words ‘idiot brother’. He also didn’t react when Lucifer’s shadow slowly crept closer.

“You brainless monkey,” Michael hissed. “You know nothing. He’s going to destroy everything!”

Destroy what, Dean wondered. Heaven’s rule on earth? If so, Dean would wave a flag and cheer. Watching Lucifer’s shadow grow behind Michael’s shoulder, Dean felt a drop of sweat trickle down his back.

“Maybe it’s time someone did,” he said and when Michael opened his mouth for another curse, Lucifer pounced on him.

The instance Lucifer slammed into Michael’s back, Michael flared up like a beacon. Dean flung up his arm to shield his eyes and when he looked again, Adam’s body lay crumpled on the floor. Two columns of white light burst from his back and climbed into the air, winding around each other, writhing and flashing like electrical fire. As they ascended, the angels kept changing shape, approximating men and eagles and other creatures that hovered just outside of Dean’s understanding. There was no mistaking they tried to choke the life out of each other though.

Dean rubbed at his burning eyes and focused on Adam again. The kid’s body lay wrung out and broken on the cage’s floor, but a tiny spark of light had detached from his chest and tumbled drunkenly toward the wall.

With Lucifer and Michael slashing at each other, Dean plunged his arm into the wall and stretched out his hand for Adam’s soul. It came easily to his fingers, soft and wispy like cotton-candy, but the second Dean got a hold of it, a tendril of white light whiplashed around his wrist.

Michael. Dean could feel his anger eat into his skin like lye and the sucker held on hard. Dean tried to pull free but disembodied or not, Michael had a vice-like grip. He dragged Dean into the wall until Dean’s shoulder was all the way in and the ice cut into his cheek. By then Dean could hear the angels’ true voices, a screeching white-noise that grew louder and louder. Dean gasped, convinced the sound would split his eardrums any second. His feet slid on the lake until a gust of air swept into his back and Cas appeared beside him, wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist.

Cas pulled and Dean screamed, the muscles of his arm and shoulder stretched almost beyond endurance. When Michael’s grip didn’t let up, Cas actually stepped into the wall, reached out and dug his fingers into the viscous brightness that was Michael’s arm. Michael didn’t hesitate; let go of Dean and latched onto Cas instead.

Fastening three more hands on Cas’ arm, Michael hauled Cas in. Feeling Cas’ grip slip on his waist, Dean tucked Adam’s soul close to his chest and used his free hand to grab Cas’ belt. He planted his feet and so did Cas, but Michael’s grace engulfed Cas’ arm up to the elbow, smothering every inch it could get at.

Lucifer returned just when it looked like Michael would win their tug-of-war. Surging like a blade between them, he yanked Michael away from Cas and the sudden release sent Dean and Cas stumbling back through the barrier. They’d barely cleared the cage when both Lucifer and Michael whammed into the wall with the force of a freight train. Chunks of ice shot out of the wall like shrapnel and the shock wave knocked Dean off his feet. Ice raining down around him, he hit the lake head first and blacked out.

 

: : :

 

Dean woke up with his brother hovering anxiously over him. Sam looked like death warmed over, his face milk-white and his pale lips moving. Dean’s head was ringing and he didn’t understand what Sam tried to say but he found he still held Adam’s soul. Sounds swept back to his ears, Sam calling his name, thunder shuddering over the lake and ice cracking. Dean turned his head and saw Cas lying on his stomach, hands curled on the ground.

“Cas?” Dean croaked.

“He’s breathing, he’s okay,” Sam said, his face scrunching up as his eyes swept to Dean’s left. “Dean, _hey_. Jesus Christ, man.”

Dean frowned, craned his neck and discovered the chunk of ice impaled in his shoulder. “Oh.”

The pain had waited until Dean had seen its source, but one look at the blood soaking the splinter and fire to blossomed in Dean’s shoulder. Not a big splinter but damn, it hurt like a bitch.

“I have to pull it out,” Sam said. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Make it quick.”

Sam had already cut up Cas’ trenchcoat; now he wrapped a strip around his hand and grabbed the jagged piece of ice. Dean forced himself to breathe steadily. His gaze found the wall and the scattered debris in front of it. Inside the cage, Michael and Lucifer were still having it out, crackling and whipping like bottled lightning.

Pinning Dean to the ground with a hand on his collarbone, Sam yanked out the shard. Dean flinched but was careful not to squash Adam’s soul in his fist. He bit the inside of his lip while Sam staunched his blood with more scraps of Cas’ coat. Dean hoped Cas had a spare. That dude was married to his trenchcoat. Sam secured a provisional bandage with the coat’s belt and helped Dean up.

The moment he was on his feet, Dean passed Adam’s soul to Sam and went to check on Cas. He was breathing, but no matter how much Dean shook his shoulder or yelled into his ear, Cas wouldn’t wake up. Sam crouched down on Cas’ other side and together they rolled Cas onto his back. Still no reaction but a pattern of hell-poisoned veins had climbed down Cas’ cheek and covered the side of his neck. Dean was touching the blue lines under Cas’ jaw when a rock the size of Dean’s head broke off the ceiling and smashed to bits within spitting distance from Sam.

“Damn!” Dean cursed.

“We’ve gotta go,” Sam said. “They’re bringing down the fucking cave.”

Dean’s gaze snapped upward. With the angels rattling around their prison like pinballs, the cage trembled and rock-dust drizzled from the ceiling. Only a matter of time until the stalactites shook loose and speared everybody on the spot.

“How about you?” Dean asked Sam. “Are you good to go?”

“I’m fine, I-- ” Sam managed before he twisted around and was sick all over the lake.

“Awesome,” Dean muttered. He grabbed the front of Cas’ shirt and tried to raise him but the second his muscles tensed, a fresh bolt of pain seared into his shoulder. Dean gasped and his hand jerked up to his bandage. Hissing through his teeth, Dean exchanged a look with Sam.

“Switch?” Sam asked and wiped his mouth with his hand.

“Yeah.”

Cradling his bad arm against his stomach, Dean took Adam’s soul and Sam heaved Cas onto his shoulders. He struggled with Cas’ deadweight but he could lift him and he could move. Together, Sam and Dean walked, _limped_ away from the cage. Light flashed behind them and swept past their backs into the cave.

Following his shadow across the lake, Dean looked back. Michael and Lucifer had climbed all the way up to the ceiling, their laser show giving Pink Floyd a run for their money. Dean wondered if they would continue like this for all the ages to come, pouring their hate out on each other, ripping off pieces and stitching them back on. They’d better get cozy because their story was over. No more prophecies, no more endtime games. With any luck, even angels and demons would forget they existed. It came to Dean that he might be the last person who’d ever walked up to the cage and the thought gave him a grim satisfaction.

Down on the ground, the shape of Adam’s dead body blurred into the folds and drifts of the ice wall. Abandoning Lucifer and Michael down here didn’t balance the scales, Dean thought, but it was the least they deserved.

 

: : :

 

No reason they should even be vertical, but the first few meters away from the cage passed almost easily. It was only when the light of the fighting angels dimmed in the distance behind Dean’s back and the ice before him dragged on that his legs threatened to cave with exhaustion.

Dean trudged across the lake after Sam, a fine powder of snow crunching under his boots. With no other option on the table, they headed back for the far bank and the threshold. The prospect of climbing back up through nine circles of Hell made Dean want to throw up, too.

He carried Adam’s soul carefully in his closed fist but the farther he walked, the less Adam seemed to enjoy his mode of transportation. He buzzed around in the hollow of Dean’s hand like a firefly in a jar. Its bumps and grazes made Dean’s hand tingle way past his wrist.

When the soul tried to wriggle out between Dean’s fingers, Dean finally stopped.

“Sam, hold up!” Dean called. “I think Tink wants to tell us something.”

Sam came back, face twisted and breath puffing with the effort of carrying Cas. “What is it?”

“Watch this,” Dean said and opened his palm.

The second Dean uncurled his fingers, Adam’s soul shot off across the lake. Five feet into the cave it did a double-take and returned, only to circle around Sam and Dean like a golden retriever on a family hike.

“You think he knows the way?” Sam asked, shifting Cas’ weight on his shoulders.

“Damned if I know.” Dean whistled. “Hey, Lassie, can you get us back to the farm?”

By way of an answer, Adam’s soul hit Dean smack on his forehead. “All right, all right,” Dean cursed. “Lead the way.”

Once prompted, Adam’s soul whizzed to the side of the cave. Dean and Sam followed and before long, the soul led them to a crevice, a jagged hole in the black rock. Coming closer, Dean thought he’d cry out of sheer relief. Hidden in the shadows, hemmed-in by frozen rubble and stalagmites, Dean recognized a battered set of stairs leading steadily up and away.

 

 **10  
The Earthly Paradise**

 _Few men can keep alive through a big surf to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind._  
—Homer, The Odyssey

_____________________________________________________

Hours later, Dean wistfully thought back to the elevator from the third circle. The stairs Adam had found led into a tunnel and the tunnel led to the top but it was a steep climb and long. Sam and Dean had to stop and catch their breaths a couple of times, Sam especially, because of the angel on his shoulders. They always pushed on as soon as they could though, eager to leave the Pit behind.

After some time, the stairs segued into a rough and narrow slope. Gravel skittered loose under Dean’s feet and with Adam’s soul the only light to guide him, he bumped his elbow on the wall and bit down on a yell.

After a time, Dean shut off, focusing only on setting one foot before the other. When he felt the first whiff of fresh air, he didn’t dare to believe in it, he just trudged on until the light in the passage brightened. At long last, Dean reached the end of the tunnel, fought his way through a bramble thicket and stepped out into the open. He took a breath, inhaled the sweet smell of summer grass and the cool night air. Up over his head, an ocean of stars powdered the sky.

It felt like a lead weight dropped off his shoulders.

Sam closed up to him and they barreled through briars and thistles until they reached a stretch of gravel that might have been a path once. They’d come out in a ditch, it seemed, with sandstone slopes rising left and right.

Once they’d cleared the thicket, Sam sat down with a groan and lowered Cas to the ground. Looking for a landmark, Dean walked over to a broken fence and read a sign that had been hammered to a post.

 _Well to Hell. This pre-cambrian sandstone cavern has first been mentioned in the district annals in 1846. The legend behind the cavern’s name traces back to local trapper John Simmons who had been forced to weather out a storm in the cave’s mouth and later claimed to have heard the screams of the damned in the deep. Main shaft extends for a length of 200m. Do not navigate without a flashlight._

Dean laughed and broke off with a grunt when his shoulder flared with pain. ‘Well to Hell’. Jesus Christ.

Leaning back against the fence, Dean closed his eyes and felt the breeze cool the sweat and grit on his face. He heard the crickets in the grass and the bramble shudder in the wind. The world had never seemed more peaceful.

When he opened his eyes, Adam’s soul hovered in front of him like a tiny moon shrouded in mist.

“Thanks buddy,” Dean murmured and lifted his hand. The soul grazed his knuckles and lifted into the air, its glow deepening to a warm, amber shine. It seemed to unfold, fine wisps of light uncoiling from its center and rising up like luminous vapor.

“He’s going home.”

Startled, Dean turned and found himself standing face to face with Cas. The angel watched Adam’s soul make its graceful ascend, the light of its unfolding mirrored in his eyes. Dean felt his breath catch in his throat.

Fixed. Cas was fixed again, his face unblemished like he’d never been wounded. The scars and blue veins had disappeared and his tie was knotted loosely around his neck again.

“Home?” Dean asked, his voice cracking like he hadn’t used it in ages.

“To Heaven,” Cas said and smiled. “Adam belongs there. He knows the way.”

The words had barely left Cas’ mouth when the soul flared and disappeared. For a brief moment Dean felt a surge of joy, a strong echo of the soul’s passing, and he imagined Adam coming back to his mum. This one time, Dean thought, they’d done good.

He was still feeling fuzzy inside when Cas stepped up to him and touched his shoulder. A second later, the pain from Dean’s shoulder was gone and Cas stood with his trenchcoat folded over his arm.

“You really like that coat,” Dean remarked and Cas looked down, puzzled. Dean wanted nothing more than to grab him into a hug and squeeze the breath out of him, the clueless, stubborn bastard.

“It’s functional,” Cas said.

“No kidding.”

Dean bumped Cas’ elbow and went past him, back to where Sam sat in the dust. Sam hugged his knees to his chest but when Dean crouched down in front of him and Cas came to stand by their side, he looked up and smiled a little. Dean clasped Sam’s shoulder, then looked up to Cas.

“Home sounds good.”

 

 **11  
Topside**

 _Chiamavi ‘l cielo e ‘ntorno vi si gira, mostrandovi le sue bellezze etterne, e l'occhio vostro pur a terra mira_  
 _Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground_  
—Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio, Canto XIV

_____________________________________________________

Cas took them back to the Camden sanctuary and Sam crashed in the bedroom. He curled up on a bare mattress and conked out instantly. Cas spent a few minutes with his hand against Sam’s chest, murmuring incantations and monitoring the resettlement of Sam’s soul, before he went outside to give the brothers some privacy.

Pattering about the room, Dean tugged off Sam’s boots and spread his sleeping bag over him. Scratching at the beard coming in along his jaw, Dean crouched down beside the mattress. He’d be wise to catch some shut-eye himself but he felt too jittery to lie down. He needed to come down, to digest that they made it to Hell and back before he could begin to unwind.

Dean propped his arms on his thighs and watched Sam’s face in the glow of the Coleman lantern. Was it his imagination, or did Sam look older? Dean bent closer, thumbed back Sam’s bangs and saw that Sam’s hair turned gray at the temples. There might’ve been a few more lines at the corner of his eyes too.

Heart aching, Dean sat back on his heels and turned off the lantern. Sam was safe. He had to hope that was enough.

Dean pulled the edge of the sleeping bag over Sam’s shoulder and rested his hand there, feeling his brother breathe in and out. He would’ve liked to get Sam out of the demon coat, but he didn’t want to wake him. In the end Dean left Sam snoring softly and went downstairs, the crooked steps creaking under his feet.

 

: : :

 

Dean didn’t think Cas would go without goodbye, not this time, but part of him still braced for a silent house and a long night with nothing to do but go through the new memories he had now of Hell.

It was a relief when he found Cas out on the back porch instead.

Coat folded over his thighs, Cas perched on the ratty couch near the corner of the house. Grateful he’d get a bit more of Cas’ company, Dean made his way to Cas’ side of the deck and braced his hands on the porch’s railing. Big clouds dragged their bellies across the sky and a cool breeze drifted up from the river. Dean couldn’t get enough of the night-air, the clean smells of damp earth and open space.

Cas sat with his eyes closed but he looked up when Dean joined him. “Sam’s sleeping?” he asked.

“Like a log.” Dean turned, hooked his thumbs into his jeans’ pockets and leaned against the railing.

Cas nodded. “He needs rest. It will take time for his body and soul to knit back together.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Dean asked, remembering everyone’s predictions about the state of Sam’s soul after a year in Hell. So far Sam hadn’t slipped into a catatonic state of head-torment but considering their usual luck that didn’t mean shit.

“I’m hopeful,” Cas said and rolled a weight the size of Mt. Rushmore off Dean’s chest. “He’s already less troubled than I feared and the wards seem to help.”

“The Mongolian soul morphine?” Dean asked.

“Is quite effective, yes,” Cas confirmed. “It’ll stop him from dreaming for a while.”

Well, that was good news. “No dreams, no nightmares, huh?”

“Precisely.”

Cas sounded so humble, Dean wondered if he even appreciated what a big deal this was. How much a few nights’ undisturbed sleep might do for Sam’s recovery. Dean thought of his mother’s bedtime assurance, given so long ago, and it came to him that for Sam, tonight it was finally true.

 _Angels are watching over you._

“That’s pretty awesome Cas,” Dean declared and Cas flashed a smile before his face turned serious again.

“We’ll have to see what happens when the wards fade,” Cas admitted. “I’m afraid there’ll be some hard times ahead for Sam.”

“He’ll pull through,” Dean said and, to his surprise, he believed it. He turned his head for the meadow and spotted a few bats swooping over the reeds. The moon was still three quarters full so they couldn’t have been gone more than a night. Of course, time passed differently downstairs. Dean’s cramping legs and Sam’s hair were proof of that. Out of the three of them, Cas was the only one who didn’t emerge from the Pit with his hands cracked from the cold.

 _We made it, though_ , Dean thought and the realization finally clicked into place.

“I could stay a while,” Cas suggested. “Make sure Sam’s recovery goes well.”

The idea sounded perfect to Dean’s ears. If it were up to him, Cas could park his angel sword in the Impala’s trunk indefinitely but he knew he couldn’t poach on Cas’ time any longer. “Nah, no need,” he said. “I know you got business upstairs. I’ll call when Sam wakes up, keep you in the loop.”

When Cas didn’t answer, Dean turned to look at him and froze. From one second to the next it seemed a shadow had fallen over Cas. He’d shut his eyes, his face sad and drawn as he closed his hands around his trenchcoat.

“Cas?” Dean ventured.

“That’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for,” Cas said quietly and opened his eyes. His expression smoothed out but Dean couldn’t unsee the pain he’d just witnessed. Had Cas’ eyes been that tired before and had Dean failed to notice?

“I should’ve asked you to stick around, shouldn’t I?” Dean asked, kicking himself for not catching a clue.

Cas shrugged. “You and Sam are the only excuse I have to stay away from Heaven.”

The only excuse not go back to war, Dean thought with a pang. He’d blocked out the knowledge that the trials weren’t over for Cas, that he’d climbed out of Hell just to rejoin the fight in Heaven.

“You don’t want to jump back into the frying pan, huh?” Dean joked but his heart hurt, realizing that two minutes on a spendthrift couch was the only reprieve Cas would get. He deserved so much better.

Dean looked down at the bowed curve of Cas’ back and wished he were the kind of person who came up with more than cheap jokes in a situation like this. He remembered his idea of offering Cas a space for his sword in the Impala’s arsenal and thought what he really wanted was to curl up with Cas on the car’s backseat, close the doors and keep Cas safe in the only place Dean felt was home.

It would take a braver man than him to issue that invitation, though.

Shoving his regret to the bottom-drawer of his brain, Dean left the railing to sit down beside Cas, his butt sinking into the lumpy cushions. Cas leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees, bony wrists showing at the cuffs of his shirt.

“Cas, if you want to hang around--” Dean trailed off and Cas let out a sigh.

“I know,” Cas said and sat up. “But you’re right. I have work waiting for me.”

Dean chewed at his lip and watched Cas straighten his back, unable to shake the impression that a darkness deeper than the shadows of the porch hovered above Cas and waited to roll him under.

“What’s going on up there, Cas?” Dean asked.

For a split second it looked like Cas was going to answer, his chest hitching like he’d be relieved to share the load. “Come on,” Dean coaxed. “You can’t cover my ass in Hell and then expect me to sit on my hands while shit rains down on you in Heaven. Let me help.”

When Cas still hesitated, Dean propped his elbows on his knees and shook his head. “You and Sam,” he said. “Would it hurt you to spit out what’s wrong once in a while?”

“Like you’re so fond of doing?” Cas asked and to Dean’s relief, his face softened with a smile.

Whatever Cas held back still worried Dean but it seemed he wouldn’t get anywhere with Cas tonight and he didn’t want to end up in a fight.

“Touché,” Dean grunted. He shoved at Cas’ arm, dropped back against the couch and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “You know what? Let’s just roll in our victory a little. Heaven can wait.”

Cas raised a brow and Dean patted the corduroy cushion behind him. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll write you a sick note in the morning.”

Dean sunk deeper into the cushions and stretched out his aching legs. The couch gave off a mildewy smell, like the upholstery had been soaked with rain and never dried right. Dean couldn’t care less, though, it felt that good to be off his feet.

After a moment’s hesitation, Cas settled against the backrest alongside Dean. “Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook,” Dean muttered. “Next time we talk, you’ll give me the lay down.”

“Next time,” Cas agreed and leaned his head back, his hands resting easy on his legs.

Dean looked at Cas’ hands longer than he should have, mapping the lazy splay of Cas’ fingers, the way his left thumb rested on the inside of his thigh before he let his gaze drift back to the meadow beyond the porch. The moon had climbed higher and the clouds had moved on, leaving behind a few stars and the prospect of a clear sky in the morning.

Stifling a yawn Dean realized, suddenly, without fanfare, that tomorrow he could start new. Get him and Sam into the car and drive wherever they wanted to. No apocalypse, no deals coming due, no destiny.

In an unprecedented spur of optimism, Dean decided they’d find a way to deal with Cas’ war too, and in the meantime he’d just drag Cas away from the trenches as often as possible.

Dean breathed out and let the tension ease from his shoulders. Funny to think of his future as a blank page. Dean didn’t know what lay ahead but he didn’t care, thought only that he would like to keep moving for a while, visit the coast maybe and get a room for him and Cas, get Cas out of that suit and see where that would take them.

He wondered if _that_ would be a good excuse for Cas to go AWOL.

Dean chuckled, closed his eyes and splayed his legs. His knee touched Cas’ thigh by accident but Cas didn’t move away and so Dean didn’t either, the small point of contact calming him in a way even the seclusion of the safehouse couldn’t.

Dean folded his arms over his stomach and figured it wouldn’t hurt if he rested his eyes a little.

 

: : :

 

Noises followed Dean into a shallow sleep, the rustle of the wind in the rushes lulling him until a string of water dribbled from the roof and startled him from his doze. He woke up on his belly, his cheek flattened against a corduroy cushion and the smell of couch mold in his nose.

Damn he couldn’t remember the last time he’d conked out like that.

Afraid he might have drooled Dean wiped at the corner of his mouth and felt something heavy and warm slide from his shoulder. Lifting his head, Dean discovered he’d stretched out on the full length of the couch and Cas’ trenchcoat covered him like a blanket.

What the—

Confused, Dean pushed up on one elbow and turned around, the trenchcoat pooling at his waist.

Cas sat on the floor, his back against the porch-railing and his arm draped over the couch’s arm-rest. It looked damn uncomfortable but Cas didn’t seem to mind. His face seemed almost serene and had he loosened his tie?

Apparently he’d gone back to his old habit of watching Dean sleep.

“Still here, huh?” Dean asked and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Part of his sleep-dazed brain registered the curve of Cas’ arm and his hand, which rested not very far from Dean’s head. Damn but Cas had fine hands.

In the meantime, Cas swiped his gaze over Dean’s face in such a curios, interested way it made Dean wonder if he had corduroy ridges printed on his cheek. Or maybe he had drooled.

Dean lifted his hand to his chin to make sure when Cas’ answer stopped him in his tracks.

“I got up to leave but you grabbed my arm and held me back,” Cas said, his expression unchanging.

“I did?” Dean asked, his stomach twisting into a knot.

“Hm.”

Struggling to absorb that information, Dean sat up and caught the trenchcoat before it could drop to the floor. How long had he been under? Five minutes? Ten? He didn’t even remember lying down, much less grabbing Cas... anywhere.

It was the strangest feeling but for some reason, Dean’s heartbeat had relocated to his belly. He’d woken up too fast, his mind still fuzzed at the edges and his walls lowered down. He didn’t know if he wanted to raise them. “You want that back?” Dean asked and held up the trenchcoat by its collar.

Cas leaned forward and reached for the coat, his shoulder brushing the couch and Dean heard his suit-jacket brush against the corduroy, Cas came that close.

Dean wrapped his hand around Cas’ arm before he could think, squeezing the hard, lean curve of Cas’ biceps under his sleeve. Cas froze, his fingers already curled into the coat. He didn’t look at Dean, his body going very still except for a muscle that twitched in his jaw.

“Okay,” Dean whispered and had no idea what he even meant by that. He only knew that right now he did not want Cas to go.

Sitting up all the way, Dean tugged at Cas’ arm until Cas unfolded from the floor and joined him on the couch. They moved back on the cushions together, the slide of Cas’ leg against Dean’s thigh going straight to Dean’s cock. Dean used his grip on Cas’ arm to tilt Cas closer, his gaze slipping to Cas’ mouth which Cas had parted just a little. Moving his hand up along Cas’ arm, Dean drew a shaky breath and his heart tried to squeeze up into his goddamn throat.

Cas still clutched his cloak, his fist twisting tighter into the fabric.

Forcing himself to breathe slowly, Dean eased the jacket off Cas’ shoulder and tugged the tail of his shirt from his pants. He was about to reach under the hem when Cas caught his hand and trapped it against his side. Dean clenched his jaw, bracing for Cas’ reaction but Cas didn’t move, didn’t even meet Dean’s eyes. No way to tell if he even liked what they were doing.

What _were_ they doing?

Whatever daze had blurred Dean’s inhibitions dropped away long enough for Dean to understand, really understand, that he was about to undress Cas.

He almost tucked tail and ran then. Going through what-ifs in his head was one thing, but to suddenly stand on the far side of the line – it surprised Dean how much that scared him. Perhaps he could still plead exhaustion. If he stopped now, maybe they could still go back to pretending. But even as he considered backing off, Dean didn’t know if he could take his hand away from Cas or get over the feel of Cas’ side rising and falling against his palm, the heat trapped under his shirt.

His hand twitched and Cas’ grip tightened, a shudder running up his side.

“You okay with this?” Dean asked, startled by the rough scrape of his voice .

“Yes,” Cas murmured and slipped his fingers around Dean’s wrist. Dean waited for another pointer but apparently there’d be none.

Yes, Dean thought, midway between laughing and freaking out. Yes?

Cas met his gaze then, his eyes sharp and questioning, going over Dean’s face with that special, intense curiosity of his. Dean swallowed nervously and Cas’ eyes widened, his fingertips digging into the soft inside of Dean’s wrist. He leaned in like he surrendered to gravity but hesitated at the last moment, his face close enough his breath brushed against Dean’s mouth.

Definitely yes.

Curling his fingers into Cas’ shirt, Dean met him halfway, nipped at the curve of his lower-lip and moved in for a kiss. Cas jolted under the push of Dean’s mouth and sucked in a breath, slanting his head to give Dean better access. He let go of Dean’s hand and took seized his face instead, the warmth of his palm sinking right into Dean’s skin and tripping up his heartbeat. It was just a kiss, a barely-there touch, but the feel of Cas’ mouth, his full, slightly chapped lips, shook Dean to the core.

This time, Cas didn’t stop him when Dean slipped his hand under his shirt. Kissing the corner of Cas’ mouth, Dean ran his fingertips over the smooth, warm skin above Cas waistband and the need to touch _more_ rolled him under like a flash flood. Dean couldn’t stop the small sound that made it up his throat, couldn’t suppress the shiver when Cas brushed his thumb along his short beard.

They shifted around, tugging at clothes and tangling their legs until Cas pressed Dean back into the couch. He put his hand low on Dean’s stomach and the weight of his touch felt good, god, so good. Dean’s breath stuttered out in a ragged huff and Cas’ eyes slipped shut. Pulling his own hand out from under Cas’ shirt, Dean took a hold of Cas’ collar. Cas gripped the back of his neck and Dean kissed him harder, coercing Cas to open his mouth, showing him how until Cas met the sweeps and licks of his tongue.

When Dean spread his legs, Cas slid down his hand without being told to. Dean had been half-hard to begin with but when Cas groped him through his jeans he bucked his hips into Cas’ touch, straining for friction. Cas stroked him like he just knew how, the heel of his hand catching on the denim and working Dean’s dick until it strained against the ridge of Dean’s fly.

“Cas,” Dean moaned and thought he might come just from finally saying Cas’ name like that, no holds barred.

But maybe it was the wrong thing, maybe it wrecked the mood because Cas broke their kiss and looked at Dean instead. Cheeks flushed and collar askew, Cas sucked his lower lip between his teeth as if he wanted to lick up Dean’s taste.

“I didn’t think—” Cas gave another experimental stroke and Dean dug his fingers into Cas’ side.

“What?” Dean asked, rubbing off against Cas’ hand. Damn it wouldn’t take much and he’d shoot in his pants like a teenager.

“I didn’t think you’d want this,” Cas said simply and it stopped Dean cold. Cas didn’t sound hurt, only surprised. Mildly amazed maybe, as if Dean had just started talking in a foreign language.

“You didn’t—what?” Frowning, Dean took a hold of Cas’ shoulder and searched Cas’ face. Surely Cas knew.

Dean hesitated. Perhaps he hadn’t exactly put his cards on the table before but still. He’d assumed Cas had caught a clue long ago and ignored the vibe between them because a, he wasn’t interested or b, he thought it was better if they didn’t complicate things. Dean had never dreamed that Cas would interpret his constraint as rejection, or that he’d maybe waited for a signal on Dean’s part.

It made him wonder what else they’d failed to communicate.

Dean rubbed his thumb over Cas’ cheekbone, stuck for words and too turned on to add one and one. Cas knew what to take when the offer was on the table, though, and went back to kissing Dean. He also got to work on Dean’s belt-buckle, slipping the tail-end of the leather strap from its loop.

Hooking his arm around Cas’ shoulders, Dean pulled at Cas until Cas buried his face against the curve of Dean’s neck. He’d never said anything, had he, never showed—God, how much time had they wasted. Dean remembered, painfully, the year he’d spent in Cicero, not knowing if he’d ever see Cas again. For a long time he hadn’t been able to shake the disappointment over Cas’ disappearance but then, he hadn’t asked Cas to stay. Yet if Cas had hoped for an invitation, he’d never let on either.

From the day they met they’d relied on each other so much it had been easy to believe they were mostly on the same page when in fact they’d spelled out very little.

Dean carded his hand through Cas’ hair, squeezing his eyes shut when Cas’ teeth grazed the soft spot beneath his ear.

Did Cas even know how important he’d become? Sure, Dean had put on a show, not least to discourage Heaven and Hell from using their friendship as bait but maybe he’d faked his indifference so well he’d fooled even Cas.

 _I didn’t think you’d want this_. The words circled in Dean’s head.

Cas was not the type to pine after him and Dean had no illusions about his own significance. He doubted anything he did or didn’t do would leave much of a dent in Cas’ millennium-long existence. But the possibility that Cas had not even been aware Dean cared? That chafed.

Moving his hand around to the back of Cas’ head, Dean kissed Cas’ cheek, lips brushing over Cas’ stubble. He knew he wouldn’t phrase it right but he needed to make a point, just this once.

“I want everything that you are,” he said, careful not to meet Cas’ eyes just then. It was a goddamn, stupid thing to say but it also happened to be true.

Cas’ hands slowed on Dean’s belt and after a second’s hesitation, Cas rubbed his cheek against Dean’s, a cat-move of affection. It made Dean smile. Moving his mouth to the hollow beneath Cas’ ear, Dean ran both his hands under Cas’ shirt and up to the edge of his shoulderblades. It had to be a sensitive spot because Cas’ arched his back and gasped, fingers fumbling for a hold on Dean’s waist.

“I also want to make you come so hard you don’t know what’s up or down anymore,” Dean said and sucked a bruise into the side of Cas’ neck.

“I have a very good sense of direction,” Cas muttered and squeezed Dean’s cock, suggesting how it just might go the other way around.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Dean rasped and freed his hands to peel the suit jacket off Cas’ shoulders.

 

: : :

 

Dean had simple tastes and he wasn’t all that creative so his fantasies always ended one way and quick. Just picture the hand on his dick was not his own and he’d be taken care of. None of it had prepared him for the warmth of Cas’ mouth, the way he licked Dean’s nipple or the noises Cas’ tongue drew from him.

Cas might be new at sex-in-practice but Dean didn’t have a lot of experience with other men either. Much less angels. It threw him how quiet Cas was, quieter than anyone Dean had been with. He soon realized that he liked flying blind, though, using hands and mouth to find out where to touch and how.

Dean had skinned off his Henley and braced himself above Cas, hands sinking into the stupid corduroy cushions. Cas shimmied beneath him, bare-chested, grinding his erection against the thigh Dean had slipped between his legs. He was fucking beautiful that way, his hair all messed up and his throat exposed when he pressed his head into the couch.

They both had their pants on still, although Cas had dropped Dean’s belt and popped the first button on his jeans. It seemed he wanted to touch Dean everywhere he could reach, running his hands up Dean’s side and over his shoulders. Dean hadn’t known, he hadn’t thought it would be like _this_ , his skin humming under Cas’ fingertips, his breath punched out of him in a groan when Cas kissed the handprint he’d left on Dean’s shoulder. Cas pulled Dean down on top of him and the feel of their bodies sliding together, legs tangling, Dean knew he would never again give this up.

The couch wasn’t big enough and when Dean stretched out his foot hung off the back end, but somehow they made it work. Dean wormed his hand between their bellies in a desperate effort to get at his fly. Cas didn’t help, pushing up with his hips, digging his fingers through Dean’s hair and scraping the blunt nail of his thumb against the grain of Dean’s beard.

“Dean,” Cas gritted and his voice was so rough, so chock-full of need Dean had no way of keeping it together. Too fired-up, crazy with all the things he wanted, the taste of Cas’ mouth, the rain-smell in his hair.

Cas rolled them onto their sides, handling Dean’s weight as if it had no consequence. Pushed up against the couch’s back-rest, Dean gave up on his jeans and reached for Cas’ pants instead, making quick work of his belt before he pushed the slacks and boxers down enough to wrap his hand around Cas’ cock. When he swirled his thumb through the precome at the tip, Cas clamped his fingers down onto Dean’s shoulder and bit off a moan, the sound catching at the back of his throat.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “God, yeah.”

He started with slow strokes, his head swimming a little from the smooth feel of Cas’ dick in his fist. His elbow kept scraping on the backrest so Dean wriggled around until he was on his back, making it easy for Cas to dump his slacks and straddle Dean’s thighs. Dean bit down on his lip, the muscles in his stomach drawing taut and quivering loose.

Still keeping his grip on Dean’s shoulder, Cas wrapped his other hand around Dean’s fingers and followed his moves. His eyes were brighter than Dean had ever seen them, still so goddamn focused as Cas looked down at their hands with no sense of shyness whatsoever. How he would look when he finally lost control, Dean couldn’t even imagine.

When Cas sat up on Dean’s lap, Dean rushed up with him. He took a hold of Cas’ hip, bit kisses along Cas’ jaw before he looked down to watch Cas knead his own dick with slow, halting twists of his hand.

“Cas.” Again with the name. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t thought he could sound so wrecked.

Making use of what he’d learned, Dean reached around to trace the outline of Cas’ shoulderblade, dragging his thumb along the curved bone and Cas keened, no other word for it, his voice high and strangled. Dean felt his balls draw tight at the sound and he needed to get rid of his pants yesterday. Pushing at Cas’ hips until Cas reared up on his knees, Dean got his jeans halfway down his shins before Cas kissed him again, hard and fierce this time. No way Dean could resist pulling Cas down on top of him then.

There’d be better ways than going on half-undressed but, Jesus, Dean didn’t care. Not with his dick catching on the rough hair that led down from Cas’ belly and the way Cas’ legs flexed around his. He reached down for a handful of Cas’ ass and Cas rolled his hips, dragging his dick against Dean’s. Dean gasped, his whole body snapping up but not getting far because Cas’ weight pinned him to the couch, the fact that Dean couldn’t move Cas easily sending a jolt of pleasure up Dean’s spine.

When Cas pushed up on his hands for better leverage, Dean used the chance to reach between them, wrap his fist around both their cocks and work them with long, curling strokes. Cas rocked his hips into his palm, his whole body writhing and restless.

Damn but Dean wanted to run them faster. He hooked an arm around Cas’ neck, felt his own shoulders lift off the couch as the muscles in his stomach clenched.

“Come on,” he urged the words against Cas’ shoulder. “Tell me how.”

“Dean.” Cas shivered, grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him up with him. “Harder. Please.”

Dean wanted to tell him, ‘Yes, _fuck_ yes,’ but managed no more than a groan. Cas caught that noise off his mouth and Dean flipped them, pushed Cas against the backrest and jerked him off, picking up his rhythm and putting a twist to his strokes until Cas dropped his head back against the couch and came with a strangled moan. No, never, Dean would never let Cas slip out of his reach again.

Cas’ chest was rising and falling rapidly, his come trickled between Dean’s fingers, and the blissed-out expression on Cas’ face sent Dean right over the edge with him.

 

: : :

 

Dean still felt like he needed to touch Cas long after they were done. They’d arranged themselves on the couch best they could, Dean on his side and Cas on his back. Cas had his eyes half-shut and Dean barely resisted the urge to trace the shadow of his lashes, feeling a bone deep gladness that he was able to look into Cas’ eyes again.

Cas had no qualms about touching, though, tilting his leg against Dean’s knee with a lassitude Dean appreciated. Biting down on a smile, Dean kissed Cas’ shoulder and shuffled to the foot end of the couch in search of his clothes. Taking his clue from Dean, Cas also sat up and fished his pants off the floor.

After a few fruitless seconds, Dean dug his Henley from a crease between the cushions and put it on. He felt a little awkward now that they were slipping past the afterglow, like he didn’t quite know what to offer Cas next. He hauled up his jeans, threaded his belt through the loops and paused to watch Cas struggle with his clothes. He’d buttoned his shirt wrong and just started over again, slipping buttons from their holes with a small furrow between his brows.

Dean smiled. “We really should take that fishing trip,” he said. “What do you think?”

Cas looked up, hands stopping on the buttons. “What?”

Dean shrugged. “You said something about Montana.”

“Yes,” Cas said slowly. For a second, Dean couldn’t tell if Cas reconsidered the idea of a weekend by the river but then Cas blinked. “We could go now.”

It surprised Dean how quickly he wanted to say all right, let’s move. He caught himself, though, thinking they didn’t need to rush. Montana wouldn’t go anywhere.

“Hey, I’m game,” Dean said. “But wouldn’t what’s-her-name, your lieutenant, have our heads for another field trip like that?”

Cas considered him a beat longer, then his mouth curled into the semblance of a smile. “Yes. I guess she would.” He went back to fastening his buttons and getting them mixed up again.

“Come here,” Dean said, scooted over and took Cas’ loose shirt in hand. Cas’ tie was still on the floor and after a second’s thought, Dean shoved it under the couch with his foot.

“Dean,” Cas said and cupped his palm against the curve of Dean’s jaw.

“Hm?”

“Do you trust me?”

Dean raised his head, more because of the tone of Cas’ voice than the hand on his face.

“Course I do,” Dean said and slowly slipped another button through its hole. “Cas, what-- ”

Cas kissed him before he could finish, tracing the seam of Dean’s mouth with his tongue like he wanted to remember its shape. Dean pulled Cas’ shirt into his fist and kissed him back, his breath hitching because, yeah, they could do that now.

“Then don’t look,” Cas said, brushed his thumb over Dean’s lower lip and let go.

Dean had no idea what had gotten into Cas but he did trust him so he closed his eyes and dropped his hand to Cas’ waist.

When the air first started to warm against Dean’s face, he couldn’t explain the source. Only when he felt the same warmth bleed from Cas’ skin through his shirt and into Dean’s palm did Dean make the obvious connection. Curious, he put his other hand against Cas’ side and felt Cas’ muscles move when Cas swung a leg over his thighs and straddled him once more. He would have looked then, purely out of instinct, but Cas put his hand over Dean’s eyes.

The heat intensified, creeping up Dean’s stomach and chest, ghosting along his throat. It felt—weird. Not unpleasant, though. Dean shifted, felt the strange, disembodied surge slip under his sleeves and into his skin. Cas’ grace, he realized and his heart tripped in his chest.

He’d felt Michael outside his vessel, but Cas was different, he was warm, careful, sinking past Dean’s blood like infrared particles.

Cas in true form felt amazing.

Breathing harder, Dean lifted his hands off Cas’ waist and gathered the charged, shifting air between them into his chest. Brightness collected beneath his breastbone, burning like a spark between his lungs. Dean could tell Cas held back, cautious not to hurt Dean or knock down any boundaries Dean had in place.

Dean didn’t hesitate. It was an easy thing to collapse the walls he had left, to pull Cas into every hollow space of his being. His invitation surprised Cas but he followed with such open exultation it made Dean’s heart even lighter. Cas’ grace brightened inside him and filtered through Dean like sunlight through a sheet of paper. If Dean’s soul had a shadow, Cas drove it out of his body.

This time, Dean didn’t know if he said Cas’ name or merely thought it.

 _Castiel_.

The grace inside him flared scorching hot but Dean barely felt the pain under the pleasure rushing up all the way from his fingertips. Cas pouring through his veins felt like flying, shooting through the air at bullet speed. Dean’s back curled and his mouth opened in a soundless cry, every nerve-ending in his body exploding with delight. He thought his heart would combust from the intensity of the heat, the sense of being completely filled out, lifted high, and scattered apart.

When Cas’ grace ebbed away from his body, Dean felt weightless, cut loose and drifting. His lungs drew air, Dean heard the muffled sound of his breath but couldn’t gather all the parts of him into a whole. Cas was still there though, gently tying his edges together until they fit seamlessly again.

 _Be safe_ , Cas whispered in his head or his ear and Dean felt something much like a kiss on his cheek. It was the closest Cas had ever come to saying goodbye.

 

: : :

 

When Dean came to, he was sprawled bonelessly on the couch. He was alone, one leg dangling to the floor, his fly still open and his boxer shorts wet with come. Sticky proof that Cas had actually groped him with his grace. Dean dropped his head back against the cushions and husked out a laugh. And there he’d thought Cas had gotten over his grand exit kink.

“Bastard,” he muttered but he didn’t feel angry. Tired, yes, battered beyond imagination , but also warmed through to his bones.

Dean pulled his leg up on the cushions, turned to the back of the couch and inhaled the smell of old fabric, rain and sex, imagining he could feel the imprint of Cas’ body in the corduroy. It was tempting to just fold up on the couch and sleep right there but Dean’s clothes were already clammy. Besides, the lumpy cushions would wreck his spine in the long run.

He zipped up first, wincing at the tacky feel of his boxers, and swung his bare feet to the floor. His toe touched something soft and when he looked down, Dean saw the tip of Cas’ tie peeking out from the couch. Seemed like Cas was done with it too.

Stifling a yawn, Dean picked up his boots and went inside.

 

: : :

 

Cleaned up and dressed in fresh (well, fresher) clothes, Dean went into the upstairs bedroom, thinking he’d lie down for a couple of hours and make himself a well-earned coffee in the morning. In the end, he slept until four in the afternoon, got up only to take a piss, and dozed off again shortly after. When he woke up the next time, the sun had set again and the air inside the room had turned lukewarm and stuffy.

Dean rubbed at his eyes and rolled off his mattress and checked on Sam. His brother was still sleeping but at least he’d kicked off the sleeping bag during the day, showing that he wasn’t a hundred percent down and out. He’d also wormed half-way out of the demon coat.

Dean debated trying to wake him because Cas’ hopeful prognosis aside, he was beginning to be anxious to hear a status report from Sam. If Sam really needed the rest to reintegrate his soul, though, Dean would hate to take it from him. He settled for tugging the coat off Sam instead.

Tossing the coat into a corner, Dean walked to the window next, undid the rusty lock and pushed the lower panel up from the sill. A cooler breeze wafted into the room along with the chirping of the crickets. The sky outside was still tinged a faint red, the colors blurring behind the window’s flawed glass panes. Gripping the warped frame, Dean jerked the window higher and varnish crumbled down onto his hands.

Out of habit Dean brushed the flakes of old paint from the devil’s trap that was etched into the window sill. It was the same symbol that he’d sprayed on the inside of the Impala’s trunk and the familiarity of it made Dean smile. He thought again how good it would feel to slide behind the wheel of his baby. In his mind he was already headed down the oak-lined driveway of the sanctuary. Sam would roll down his window on the shotgun side and they’d hit the open road together, maybe follow that two-lane asphalt up south, maybe way up to Montana.

“Dean?”

Dean was still tracing the devil’s trap with his thumbnail when he heard Sam’s voice and turned around.

 

  
**Fin **  
__________________  
19/10/11****   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sources and References**
> 
>  **Quotation Sources** :  
> Alighieri, Dante. _Divine Comedy_ (1308 – 1321)  
>  _Encyclopedia Mythica_ (website)  
>  Hauff, Wilhelm. _A Heart of Stone_ (1828)  
>  Homer, _The Odyssey_  
>  Shakespeare, William. _The Tempest_ (1611)  
>  Ovid, _Metmorphoses_  
>  von Klinger, Friedrich Maximillian. _Faustus: His Life, Death and Descent into Hell_ (1791)  
>  Wright, Thomas. _St. Patricks Purgatory or An Essay On The Legends Of Purgatory, Hell and Paradise Current During The Middle Ages_ (1844)
> 
>  _Its threshold is Precipice. The bed therein is Care, the table is Hunger, the hanging of the chamber is Burning Anguish_  
>  quoted from Padraic Colum, _Orpheus, Myths of the World_
> 
>   
> **: : :**   
> 
> 
> **a/n** : Many scenes in this story were inspired by photographs, digital art and traditional paintings. Among those artists to whom I’m indebted, those I’m particularly aware of and grateful to include:  
> [Euclase @ tumblr](http://euclase-spn.tumblr.com/post/10418995332/shield-digital-painting-ps-hey-cool-this-is-a)  
> [Gustave Doré](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gustave_Dore_Inferno32.jpg?uselang=de, )  
> [Moyan Brenn @ flickr](http://www.flickr.com/photos/aigle_dore/5952226420/)  
> [Midnight – digital @ flickr](http://www.flickr.com/photos/midnight-digital/3602198252)  
> [Moe1ty @ deviantart](http://moe1ty.deviantart.com/art/Owlwood-VII-183183552)  
> [trusespedal @ deviantart](http://trulsespedal.deviantart.com/art/The-Light-II-140362516)  
> [Zdzislaw Beksinski](http://zdzislawbeksinski.blogspot.com/2010/10/zdzislaw-beksinski-paintings-from-1985.html)


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